


Vir Atish'an

by lovenug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, DLC Spoilers, Dragon Age Lore, Elvhen Lore, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, If I'm not drawn in by the tragedy, Lore Speculations, POV Solas, Slow Build, Strangers to Friends, cute elves being cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:24:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 58,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8652613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovenug/pseuds/lovenug
Summary: This world was a misapprehension. Illegitimate and unreal. But that was sometimes hard to remember when everything was so close; when he himself walked the earth of this cursed world, played a part in its workings and conversed with its participants.
Follow Solas through fade visits, frilly cakes, frescos and spirit friends. Will cover the events of Inquisition, Trespasser and beyond, with some major canon divergence later on.





	1. Safe Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations taken from FenxShiral.  
> Savhalla: Salutations/hello.  
> An'daran Atish'an: Greetings, welcome, the place you go is a safe place.  
> Shemlen: Quick children, derogatory slang for non-dalish. Used usually to refer to humans.  
> Fenedhis: Common curse word.  
> Dar'atisha: Go in peace.  
> Tas ma: You as well.  
> Lethallin: Blood kin.

Two Templars led him through the huge wooden gates of the Chantry. One took the front and the other fell in behind him as they passed through a side door down a narrow staircase. He found himself in a dark basement, illuminated only by a few flickering torches that formed long, dancing shadows across floors and walls. The stone was cold and against his bare feet, and the air smelled of iron and old hay. He headed deeper into the corridor, and the Templars followed in silence. Well, as silent as you could in full plate armour.

At first he couldn’t spot the prisoner. She was curled into herself, looking like nothing more than a small pile of cloth on the floor in the corner of a cell. His first task was uncoiling her and carefully rolling her onto her back.

Ah.

A dalish.

The lines on her face were barely visible in the darkness of the cell but there was no denying them. How fitting, he thought sourly, that her downfall would be crossing the shadow of the Dread Wolf. She should have stayed in the safety of her clan. Solas grabbed some handfuls of hay, which had to serve as a makeshift pillow. After carefully propping her head up he turned to the Templars.

“Has a healer seen to her?”

“No, no proper healer here really. Adan checked on her though, gave her some potions.”

“I see. I will check her for injuries and rectify her in case I find any. Before I begin work on her hand.”

He didn’t wait for a response and instead focused on the woman in front of him. He let his aura sweep over her, looking for disruptions in her pattern. She was severely malnourished, sported several serious bruises and a sprained ankle. Other than that she was fine. Except of course for the fact that she was dying.

He healed the bruises and the ankle, and redirected his attention to her left hand. He placed it into his own.

“It may spark or glow as I examine it,” he warned his guards.

“Yeah, just don’t try anything, alright? We’ve got our eyes on you.”

He suppressed the wish to roll his eyes. Ah, because of course the elven apostates had to know each other. As if he had anything in common with this girl.

The mark was spreading, that much was clear. As the Breach expanded, so did it. And the consequences would be devastating if the process wasn’t haltered – both in regards to the sky, the world and the girl.

He sat in hours, trying to rid her of the magic. Trying to claim it for himself. It was his, after all. To no success.

The Templars’ patience were thinning. In the beginning they were pacing outside the cell, glaring suspiciously at him as he worked. After the first two hours they reclined on some wooden crates, only scrambling to their feet when the Seeker arrived.

Her eyes were as sharp as daggers. As was her tone.

“What can you tell me?”

“Of its origins, unfortunately not a lot,” he responded. “However, the mark is connected to the Breach. It grows with it, and it stands to reason that it was created with it, due to the nature of its appearance.”

“Is it not possible she already possessed it? Crafted it as a weapon?” She almost tripped over the words, heated and angry.

“No,” he answered simply.

“No?”

“The expansion of the mark is killing her. And quickly. She could not have had it for long. There are perhaps ways to slow its growth though. To prevent it from spreading further. If my theory is correct, it would be in our best interest to do so.”

“And what exactly is this theory of yours?”

“That the mark could be used to close the rifts, and perhaps even the Breach itself, provided it was given enough power. It cannot be removed though, the plan depends on her survival.”

“Then see to it that she wakes, or I will have you executed as an apostate.”

With those words she stalked of. He was left pouring magic into the woman. As the night dragged on he became more and more dejected. It was a hopeless task. No mortal could walk physically through the Fade and live.

After two days he was close to giving up. He convinced Cassandra that he needed to study a rift closer, and went with the next patrol heading out of Haven. With him be brought his pack – ready to head off if he needed to.  

***

His barrier flared and fluttered as the clawed hands scraped at him. This was not good. His arms trembled when he raised his staff to block one of the shades. It hissed as he covered it with frost, but it did not stop its onslaught. Solas was sweating and cursing, and it was a relief when Cassandra came into view. The dalish woman following her an even bigger relief. So she had made it, after all. Not all was undone.

The woman quickly took in the fight, staff in hand, and soon the cloak of one of his attackers’ caught aflame.  A shriek was torn out of its seemingly mouthless face as the fire rose higher and higher, rapidly engulfing it in molten death.

They made quick work of the remaining demons, but he could already feel the rift pulsating with energy. He rushed to the side of the dalish and grabbed her hand.

“Quickly, before more come through!”

He held her wrist as it shook vigorously, green light flowing from it into the rift. Her wide eyes were wild with fear. Sparks and flashes erupted from the closing crevice, its last angry sputterings before it was sealed shut with a roar, leaving a clear sky and a quiet mountaintop. As soon as he let go of her she pulled her hand tightly to her chest, and he could see both alarm, alleviation and confusion flashing over her heavily tattooed face. It finally settled on reverence.

“What did you do?” she asked him.

She paced herself remarkably swiftly, as the situation was explained to her. Varric’s easy banter seemed to calm her, even though she still kept a safe distance to the Seeker. When he saw the bloodied marks the handcuffs had left behind on her wrists he couldn’t really blame her.

“Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen.” he stated as they turned to leave. “Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

The Seeker held his gaze briefly and nodded.

“Understood.”

As soon as Cassandra turned her back the other elf beamed at him, big eyes shining over a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, before hurrying after the others.

***

He studied her more carefully as they made their way through the mountain path. She must not be from the area. Her loose pants and foot wraps were clearly suited for a warmer climate, and she looked like she’d been traveling. The rucksack on her back was huge; it was a wonder that she didn’t tip backwards as they made their way up the stairs.

He didn’t recognize her blood markings, but in this time that was not strange. There were a lot of new designs – well, new for _him_ , at least – and often old ones had bled together to create different variations. He guessed that was the case here. The adorned bands curling around her forehead and ears hinted at Sylaise, but the lines traveling across her chin and down her neck looked like tributes to June, or perhaps Andruil.

He wasn’t the only one observing. Her busy eyes shifted between the three of them. She was quiet, and listened closely to everything being said. Her pierced ears twitched as the dwarf and the Seeker bickered between themselves or asked her questions.

If she was to be trusted she had no memory of the events at the Conclave or how she came by the mark. Disappointing, to say the least. Or untrue.

After a short moment of silence he decided to join in on the questioning.

“You are dalish, yet clearly away from the rest of your clan.  Did they send you here?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“What do you know of the dalish?”

“I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

She now eyed him just as carefully as he had previously studied her, and choose to answer his question with one of her own, for a second time now.

“What do you mean by ‘crossed paths?”

“I mean that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition,” he bit back.

She fell silent then, her face unreadable. Typical, he thought. Of course she couldn’t handle criticism. The dalish feared it so much they literally took to the woods to avoid anyone who might challenge their limited worldview. He was surprised when she spoke up, her voice low but unwavering.

"We're both of the same people, Solas."

"The Dalish I met felt differently on the subject."

Her eyes caught his and she held his gaze as she spoke.

“Ir abelas, hahren. If the dalish have done you a disservice, I would make that right.”

That was... unexpected, to say the least.

He was thankful for the new demons coming into view, saving him from responding with more than a short nod of acknowledgment. He watched with new appreciation as the small elf drew upon the Fade and twisted flames around her staff.

***

Walking into the smoking remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes was trying. Searing corpses were scattered across the scorched ground. Inside the crater everything was cast in red and green, the bright colours unnatural and out of place as they danced across frightened faces. A menacing voice reverberated through the valley, making their new companion turn her head hurriedly, trying to locate the source. And shivering slightly when she found none.

The torn sky was a constant reminder of his failures, as was the chuckling, six-eyed pride-beast that emerged from it. The demon was slain, though, and the dalish shoved her marked hand towards the tear which hungrily swallowed her magic.

Even though he realized that the Breach needed closing, it was a sad thing to see the veil strengthened – the Fade closed off, even more. Even further apart from this cursed world. The Breach was just as doomed, though. The veil falling apart in pieces would only cause chaos – on both of its sides. This was _not_ how it was meant to happen.

Suddenly the voice from earlier spoke again. Echoing ominously over the battlefield. The elven woman collapsed in a burst of green.

***

Solas once again found himself at her side, watching over her as she slept. Now tasked with stopping the mark from spreading.

The spell he weaved was slow and deliberate. Ancient words pulled from the Fade, intervening and vibrating with each other in consonance to still the sizzling streak in her palm.

It took hours.   

Outside it sounded like a war was being waged. Angry voices raged on both sides of the skirmish. The first times people stormed through the door they were content to simply scream at the unconscious elf and make threats to her life. The second time, however, a man came prepared with an axe. After that guards were assigned to her cabin.

The dalish girl slept through it all, only sometimes stirring in mutterings about creatures with long legs and too many eyes.

The voices outside soon turned to reverent whispers. The same people who had seen her as nothing but a mere criminal, bound and beaten, just days before, now sang her praise with the same tone reserved for legends and prophets. The Herald of Andraste they called her, sent by the Maker to cure the sky and save the world. Even though he found the tendency to explain the unknown through divine intervention exceedingly tiresome, it did make his job easier. If the belief in their god would spare the mark it far outweighed any annoyance he might feel towards the ordeal.

Besides, the situation was way too amusing to cause too much chagrin; the humans thought the Makers sent savior to be a woman marked in worship for another.

***

Solas was given a cabin in Haven. It was more than he had hoped for. However, he suspected it has little to do with friendliness and acceptance, and more to do with the wish to keep an eye on him. Being watched was of no consequence though, for the most part. He actually wanted to help, for once. Nonetheless he had to sneak off to pass on a message to some of his agents. It would be beneficial if some of them joined this new organization he found himself in. He doubted he would be passed sensitive information without the involvement of a couple of well-placed spies.

The inhabitants of Haven weren’t the only ones believing the woman blessed. Varric sought him out on the second day. He brought wine and a deck of cards, and they spoke long into the night about the curious people surrounding them. Inevitably the conversation drifted to the dalish – the Herald.

“And what about you? Do you think her holy?” he asked the dwarf.

“I don’t know, Chuckles,” Varric sighed. “But it feels too good to be true otherwise, doesn’t it? Like something out of a story. Even I couldn’t make shit like that up.”

“Not for a lack of trying, I’m certain.”

“Nah, I’ll stick to the small town crime I think. This right here, this is apocalyptic stuff.”

“Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

“Yeah, and that’s what god-sent saviors are good for, aren’t they? Preventing outright apocalypse and all that.”

“What they are good for is inspiring others to act, giving them purpose and hope. Only time will tell what the people will do with it though. When faced with an imminent threat, people can both raise above themselves and act with wisdom and courage, or become frightened fools struggling for survival, not caring what happens to others as long as their own safety is secured. I have seen it countless of times.”

“Fingers crossed for that first one, then.”

“Indeed.”

***

The whole village had gathered to see her wake. He watched from afar as she made her way through the crowd towards the Chantry.

And just like that, the Inquisition was officially born again. Risen from the sacred ashes of the obliterated temple.

He mostly kept to himself, not wanting to draw the already suspicious eyes of its founders. _She_ was however right in the middle of it all.

He was told her name; Ellana, First of Clan Lavellan.

She had many of the peculiar quirks expected from a dalish. She refused shoes, disliked being inside for prolonged periods of time, had no regards for privacy or personal space and was at a complete loss over how to use some of the more upper-class cutlery. Outside her cabin rows upon rows of herbs had been hung up to dry, and sometimes he could swore the faint sound of a flute could be heard emanating from the small building.

Despite her many strange habits, and the sometimes inevitable culture shock that came with her dissentient background, she quickly nestled in with the others. Or perhaps it was because of it, rather than despite it. A First must know how to appeal to people, smooth over differences and ease concerns, he reasoned.

Varric had been easiest to win over. They had traded tales by his tent and she had happily agreed to try all that the tavern had to offer in way of drinks. She even managed to wrangle him into lending her one of his books and soon she could be seen lost within the thick covers of _The Tale of the Champion_.

Josephine had been second. She spoke highly of the girl when Solas and she talked over dinner. Lavellan had come to her to learn more about human customs and the ambassador had been happy to share. They had ended up giggling and gossiping.

Leliana and Cassandra had been harder, it seemed. And perhaps they were not completely on her side yet. But it was only a matter of time. The elven girl approached them both with encouraging talks and questions of Justinia, the Chantry and the Andrastian faith. The talks with Cassandra usually ended with Lavellan asking her advice - or faking to do so - and her talks with Leliana often culminated angry critics of Chantry politics.

He had thought that the most difficult person to win over for a dalish apostate would have been Cullen, the former Knight-Commander. It seemed Lavellan had come to a somewhat similar conclusion, since she had completely forgone befriending him or getting him to agree with or respect her. Instead she chose a much more crass method. Crass, but effective. Among innocent questions she would hide clever flirtations and suggestive smiles. He fell hard and fast and came up flushed and stuttering.

It was a while before she actively tried to enlist Solas. At first he guessed that it was thanks to him not being deemed important enough, but after she sought him out he was made to reconsider.

They had spoken earlier of course, but had not exchanged more than shallow pleasantries, so he was surprised when he heard a knock on his door and found her standing on the other side.

“Savhalla,” she said cheerfully.     

“An'daran atish'an. Can I help you with anything?”

“I... Well. Maybe, I hope so.”

When she didn’t elaborate he stepped aside and gestured for her to come inside. It was the polite thing to do, after all.

She didn’t seem to think so, though. Her eyes widened and she looked at him with a confused expression.

“Oh, okay.”

She stepped inside and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, until he cleared up space on his table and presented her with one of the chairs. He sat down on the opposite side of her.

“Are you settlin’ in okay?” Lavellan asked, her thick dalish accent cluttering the simple sentence with ups, downs and rolled r’s.

“I cannot complain. I have been treated better than could have been expected, even though I lack both your divine mark and your skills of allurement.”

She blushed visibly.

“Most of the shemlen here are nice,” she agreed.

“Don’t let them hear you use that word, or that will change quickly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shemlen. It is considered a slur. One most humans do not appreciate being called.”

She looked genuinely surprised. And then terrified.

“Fenedhis, I didn’t know! It’s just the term we use back home. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He laughed.

“Think nothing of it. If they haven’t had your head for it by now you are probably in the clear.”

She smiled, but still looked slightly worried.

“Now, what sort of assistance might I – maybe – offer?”

Lavellan chewed her lip nervously and glanced around the room, like she expected an eavesdropper to be hiding under his bed. Having found no intruders she leaned in closer and spoke in a hushed tone.

“Cassandra said that you are an expert on the beyond.”

“Ah, yes. I have journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. When I dream in such places I can find memories no other living being has seen.”

“That is extraordinary!” she said, voice full of wonder.

“Thank you. It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning.”

He sent the young fire-caster a small smile.

“The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

“I was hoping that I could,” she began. “Trade it, that is. I have no experience traveling the Fade, or talking to spirits. When I dream in the Fade, I mostly just sit around hoping not to attract anything dangerous. I-I was wondering if you could teach me?”

“You dream in the Fade?” he asked in astonishment. From what he had heard, the dalish had not had a known dreamer in a long time. _Known_ of course being the key word here. Why would they ever have made themselves known to outsiders?

“Yes. But I have never met anyone else who does, and the clans have no lyrium, so trips to the beyond are rare. What we once knew is mostly lost. And since I don’t know how to handle myself there I mostly try to prevent ever entering. There are teas and charms that make it harder to pass over.”

Solas pondered her words. An untaught dreamer was a dangerous thing, especially when wielding a mark of tremendous power. And if she was lost, then so was the world.

“I will teach you, if that is what you wish,” he decided.

Judging by the happiness on her face, you would think he had just gifted her all the halla in the world. She grabbed his hand that was resting on the table and squeezed it firmly with both of her own. For a terrible moment he thought she might cry.

“Oh thank you, Solas!”

“It will be my pleasure,” he assured as he untangled his fingers from her grip.

He started questioning her in regards to what she knew of the Fade. It wasn’t much, but she was eager to learn and followed all his inquiries with questions of her own. When he asked her permission to find her in her dreams however, she seemed scared, and he was suddenly reminded that she was dalish, after all. How painfully easy it was to forget, despite it being written all over her. She quickly swallowed her fears down and locked her jaw in determination.

“That would be alright. It’s probably for the best anyway, if you are to teach me about Fade stuff anyway. To do it there, I mean.”

“I agree. And I am looking forward to teaching you more about ‘Fade stuff’, as you so eloquently put it.”

She laughed.

“Well, we can’t all be well-spoken hahrens.”

“Well-spoken? Varric would laugh if he ever heard anyone call me that.”

“Varric laughs at most things,” she said, and he could not but agree.

“I will stay then. At least until the Breach has been closed,” he added after a while.

“Was that in doubt?”

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Her face grew serious and her eyes locked into his.

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.”

“How would you stop them?” he asked softly.

“However I had to.”

She said it like an oath, and not for a second did he doubt the sincerity of it. His “Thank you” was just as genuine.

Suddenly the room felt too crowded. She felt a little too close.

“I have kept you later then I intended,” he said hastily, turning his gaze towards the darkness on the other side of the window.

“Oh, I didn’t realize how much time had passed," she said as she stood and made her way to the door.

"I’ll see you in the morrow, Solas.”

“Dar’atisha” he offered her as she stepped outside.

“Tas ma, lethallin,” she responded with a blinding smile, closing the door behind her.

The endearment gave him pause. He suddenly realized why she had not sought him out sooner. She didn’t think it necessary, courtesy of their shared blood. How very dalish. He knew, however, that she had at least been somewhat successful in enlisting him, since he couldn’t actually muster any annoyance over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As all you nerds can probably tell I used some game dialogue for this, and changed it up a bit to better suit my needs. I won't stick to pre-existing script so much in the future, mostly because I personally find it kinda boring to read through things I have already played. Hopefully you didn't find that the case here :) Thanks for reading!


	2. Buried Among Clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28/11-16: I added some things to this chapter. I recommend rereading to better understand future chapters.

In Elvhenan they had used magical illusions for stratagem. Instead of war tables, such as the one currently resting within Haven’s Chantry, they had weaved intricate imitations of cities and battlefields to simulate outcomes and examine plans. Solas had often cursed himself for his soft heart – for wincing when seeing scenes of death and torment being played out before him. People, places and situations had been put together only to be taken apart moments later, imagined only to then be disassembled, and the characters within these elaborate displays looked like people – sometimes even like people he knew. Similarly, empty artifices had walked the streets of Arlathan, together with simple wisps gifted bodies, animated statues and animals reshaped against their will. Appearing alive did not guarantee actual consciousness or complexities. This he knew, intellectually. The illusions and automatons often looked like real people, but they were not. A reminder he had needed to repeat to himself time and time again.

Now he again found himself in constant need of the same reminder.

This world was a misapprehension. Illegitimate. It was like one of the ancient illusions that went wrong, one that he recoiled at and quickly erased lest the images of suffering etched themselves into his mind. But that was sometimes hard to remember when everything was so close; when he himself walked the earth of this cursed world, played a part in its workings and conversed with its participants. Solas found the whole thing unnerving, and confusing. This time was muted and tranquil, lacking all the depth and colour of what had come before, of that which was now lost, but its inhabitants did not seem to realize their lack and losses. They had never known any alternative, and simply went on with their limited lives. And they did it while seeming equal parts alive and empty. On one hand full of feelings and thoughts, on the other unmoving and static. Varric would laugh fondly at a treasured memory, his esteem showing in every part of his face all while projecting nothing. Cassandra would fight with conviction and bravery, with her aura completely distant and still.

They were not real, not truly, a stern voice in his head maintained. You are picking up small rings and ripples on the surface of shallow puddles, and think them signs of stirrings and deep waters.

Because you are lonely.

And because you are weak.

And to be weak, soft-hearted and sentimental would not do if he were to fulfil his duty, reset his wrongs and save the People.

He sighed inwardly.

He would have to remember that, even when traveling with the Herald and the others. They had proven unexpectedly agreeable, and if that continued to be the case spending time with them would surely test his convictions and pry at his sentimentalities.

***

They set out towards the Hinterlands just before sunrise. For once he was thankful for Havens cold climate, as it served to shake the last traces of sleep from his mind.

A Chantry mother had requested a meeting with the Herald, and since she herself was tied up helping refugees at the Crossroads the Herald had to come to her.

The party was made up of himself, Cassandra, Varric, and of course Lavellan. They began their trek in silence, too tired to talk just yet. Solas was pleased to be traveling again. Haven had little to entertain him. Pleasant company was sparse, there were few books that didn’t consist of dreary Chantry archives and the presence of the Breach drove away any otherwise nearby spirits. As they had descended the mountain he closed his eyes and sighed happily at the feel of grass between his toes. In front of him Lavellan did the same thing.

The evening before Josephine, Leliana and Cassandra had met a bump in the road to grooming the Herald into becoming the perfect puppet for the Inquisition; she had absolutely refused to wear shoes while traveling. After what felt like hours of debating they had finally come to an agreement; Lavellan could go barefoot while traveling, but as soon as she arrived in a village or a city, or was to meet with someone important, she was to put on the pair of boots now shoved into the bottom of her backpack.

The backpack in question was decorated with embroidery and sewn in pieces of bones and pearls. He studied it as he walked behind her. There were mostly flowers and vines, with a for him unknown emblem as its centerpiece.

“The symbol on your backpack, what does it mean?” he inquired. ”If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Of course not. It is the symbol of my clan.”

She turned to him and smirked as she spoke again.

“Hopefully it will keep us safe from any dalish watching us from behind the trees.”

“Hah!” Varric exclaimed. “Like they could miss that you were one of them, Lucky. You’re the most dalish looking dalish I have ever met.”

“Thanks you, Varric!” she snickered. “But it only counts if you have actually met more than one other dalish.”

“I’ve met an entire clan! Haven’t you read the book I gave you? I am wounded!”

“Oh, I forgot! Clan Sabrae, of course.”

“Now, how did you figure the name out? I left it out of the book.”

“It was obvious. I met both their Keeper and their First at the last Arlathvhen – their new ones, that is. But our clans have crossed paths many times before that, we are usually in the same areas.”

“No way, you’re a fellow marcher?”

“I am!”

Cassandra decided to join the conversation.

“I didn’t think your people roamed so far north,” she said. “Clearly, I was mistaken.”

“Oh, there are clans all the way up to Antiva,” Lavellan explained excitedly. “None in Tevinter of course, though.”

“A long trip, to travel across the Waking Sea simply to spy on the events of the Conclave,” the Seeker pressed on.

“Well, being well informed about the mage rebellion becomes more and more important the closer to Kirkwall you are. We were worried about how the backlash would affect us. The Templars hate that the dalish mages are free, but are usually forced to let us be as long as we don’t stir up any trouble. The Conclave could have very well changed that.”

“Usually? They do not always leave you be?”

“No,” Lavellan responded tersely.

Solas had also wondered to what a dalish First might be doing at the Conclave. She had previously disclosed that she had been sent as a spy. With her elaboration it sounded plausible enough, he guessed. He couldn’t really claim to be well-versed in Free Marcher clan politics, though.   

They walked in awkward silence for a while, until Varric slipped on a mossy stone and all the previous discomfort was forgotten as the Herald and the Seeker joined causes in their snickering.

“Ugh, I hate this!” the dwarf complained, but even he seemed to realize the uplifting aspects of his stumbling.

After lunch Solas fell into steps beside Cassandra. His appreciation for her grew as they spoke about the Conclave. They might not agree on things, but Solas admired people who stood up for their beliefs while also remaining open to the perspectives of others.

 _Not real, not real, not real,_ the unsympathetic voice in his head reminded him.

Just before nightfall the odd group made camp in a small grove. Lavellan whistled while they put the tents up.

“So, Lucky. Who do you wanna bunk with?” Varric asked her when they were done.

“I’ll take Solas,” she responded without missing a beat and threw her pack into the tent she had just finished putting up.

Surprising.

He had anticipated he’d be sharing with Varric.

He put his things in the tent she had claimed.

“I hope you don’t think I overstepped, offering you up like that,” she said as they turned in for the night.

“It is of no consequence, I had simply assumed you’d want to share with Cassandra.”

“Yeah, well… I’m used to sharing a bed space with men, but I have never slept next to a non-elf. I don’t know, it’s probably silly of me. Sorry.”

“If it makes you feel safer, it is not silly,” he assured, and she flashed him a relieved smile.

“Thank you.”

And then she pulled her shirt over her head and he swiftly turned his back.

Ugh.

Perhaps he had been too quick to declare sharing a cramped tent with an unashamed dalish woman “of no consequence”.

He settled on simply removing some of his outer layers before slipping into his bedroll.

Sleep claimed her first. He was not accustomed to sleeping so close to another, but after getting over the initial strangeness he found her slow breaths oddly soothing.

She was easy to locate in the Fade. Her already strong aura was amplified by the anchor, which resonated across the dreamscape, both foreign and familiar.

She was sitting in a grove much like the one they were asleep in back in the waking world.

“Hello,” she greeted him, and then stiffened. “How do I know that it is you, and not just a demon pretending?”

“Dreamers are sensitive to demons, we can usually feel them coming long before they arrive. Besides, I think you will recognize my aura, if you examine it more closely.”

He held still as her magic brushed up against him, carefully examining the edges of his being.

After a while she exhaled.

“Yeah, it’s you alright.”

“Excellent. Now we can get into the fundamentals of walking the Fade.”

He sat down next to her.

“Firstly; your perception alters everything. If you enter it expecting to encounter a demon, you will. To truly find what the Fade has to offer, you have to rid yourself of your preexisting beliefs and remain open to its many wonders. Secondly: you must watch your emotions, since both spirits and the fabric of the Fade responds to them. Too much rage, for example, will not only attract rage demons, but also corrupt gentler spirits to their form.”

“Not the simplest of things,” she stated.

“No, but you are already quite proficient at it. I have seen you cleanse your aura and focus your thoughts even in the most dire of situations, even in the face of demons. To do it again, here, should not prove to be outside of your abilities.”

She worried her lips between her teeth.

“What if I fail?”

“It will not matter. While I am with you, you are always safe,” he guaranteed.

“So, should I meditate… now?”

“Yes. Let’s see if this place holds any memories for us to unearth.”

They both got in position and closed their eyes. After a while he could feel their surrounding shift as the Fade vibrated and warped around them. He opened his eyes and found himself in a dense forest, not dissimilar from the earlier one. It was evening, and the flickering light of a fire was seen between trees in the distance. A murmur of voices mingled with the sounds of the night and the soft whisper of wind against the fir needles.

Lavellan could barely contain her excitement.

“Where are we?” she gasped.

“We shall see,” he said and started walking towards the voices.

A band of avvar warriors were gathered around a huge fire after what must have been a gruesome battle. A body rested in the underbrush. Their thane, who had fallen in the fight. "A memory," Solas whispered. Lavellan and he Solas watched as they cleaned her body, mumbling litanies and tributes. Once done the avvar began the long process of dismembering her. Lavellan jolted as they cut into the dead flesh, and she grabbed his hand and held it tightly, but did not look away. The process was slow. The avvar sang while they worked – some cutting, some binding the body parts with rope and hoisting them up in the tree tops.

“They call them air burials,” he explained. “They offer their dead to the Lady of the Sky, their goddess of death. Her birds bring her the soul of the deceased.”

Once all the parts had been scattered the avvar gathered around the fire and joined in prayer. It was a strange sound, midway between a chant, a humming and a war cry. Their voices echoed between the trees, almost overwhelmingly loud in the quiet night.  

Lavellan was still clutching his hand.

“Thank you,” she said. “This was beautiful. Strange, and unnerving, but beautiful nonetheless.”

When he woke she was still holding his hand in hers. He looked away and forced his eyes close.

The string of _'not real, not real, not real'_ echoed through his thoughts in an unending mantra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion: there are some freaky stuff in the Avvar wiki page.


	3. Mother Knows Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28/11-16: I added some things to chapter 2. I recommend rereading it to better understand future ones.

Mother Giselle had insisted that they traveled to Val Royeaux to approach the Chantry. Cassandra had strongly supported the idea. Lavellan did not, but had begrudgingly agreed.

Solas thought it evident the girl was simply used by the Inquisition founders. The rumors of her divine blessing had been spread purposefully by them to strengthen their cause and claim. And now she had little choice but to be strung along, whatever their plan for her was.

And the Chantry’s plans for elves meddling in its religious conflicts weren’t usually all that pleasant.

He wondered to whether or not  she was herself aware of just how little say she had in her own fate, as it now stood.

Lavellan’s unfortunate position was of course not just the fault of the humans around the war table though, he thought dryly. It was by his actions she had been lead onto this road. The feelings of regret and guilt the thought filled him with was familiar - it seldom leaved him, these days. It curled and twisted inside his stomach as he watched her making her way towards the capital, and when she noticed his eyes on her and flashed him a bright smile the crashing emotions rose in his throat like bile.

Lavellan appeared more and more anxious the closer they got to the city. When it was within eyesight she began fidgeting with the hem of her tunic and picking at her nails. When they arrived outside the gates she had gone quiet and her eyes moved restlessly from side to side and when they finally breached the city walls her otherwise stirring form became strangely still. Her shoulders tensed and her posture shrunk, folding into itself making her appear even smaller than she already was.

The orlesians whispered furiously as they entered the square. Having a claimed Herald of Andraste representing a heretical splinter organization was enough cause for scandal by itself. Having said Herald be a dalish heathen by far tipped the scale against them. Or in their favor, if their ambassador proved as useful as she seemed. A good scandal could always be put to decent use.

For now, however, the harsh word and pointed glances of the humans served only to upset the Herald further. She looked terrified. Trembling and wide-eyed, with her mouth tightly shut and her ears twitching at the constant murmur of slurs and smears around them.

When he placed a hand on her shoulder she almost jumped. Inwardly he cursed himself for startling her.

“Hamin,” he whispered calmly. “Just breathe. You are safe. We will soon be away from the crowds. And we will not leave your side.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

“Ma serannas, Solas.”

“Da’rahn.”

She took a few more moment to gather herself before stepping towards the crowd.  

***

The Chantry Mother rallying the masses was condescending and bigoted, yet Lavellan found the time to seek her out after the ordeal with the Templars.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her melodic accent jarringly out of place among the adorned spires and carefully laid out gardens.

“Ah, have you come to boast about your victory?” came the dismissive reply.

The woman was still on the ground, clutching at her side.

“What the Templars did was uncivil and crude, I took no pleasure in it,” Lavellan responded firmly and offered the battered woman her hand.

The Mother scrutinized her briefly before grabbing the outstretched hand and hoisting herself back up. Lavellan proved to be full of questions about the current state of the Chantry. They spoke for some time, the conversation becoming slightly more pleasant as time passed. Cassandra, Varric and himself hung back, observing the exchange.

“Do you really believe you were sent by the Maker?” the Mother asked.

Lavellan sent a nervous glance towards Cassandra before responding. Her speech was slow and deliberate, as if every word was weighed carefully.

“Truthfully, no. I do not believe in your Maker. But if he does exist, I do not think he would have any problem sending an elf as his chosen. In the Chant of Light, does not Andraste say to Shartan that ‘the Maker has called you, just as He called me’?”

Ah, she had been reading up on Andrastian faith and human customs then. A wise decision – Solas was beyond pleased. At his side, however, the Seeker was frowning. "That has not been in the Chant of Light for a long time," she said, her tone putting an immediate end to the conversation.

When they bid farewell to the Mother the sun was setting. Two messages arrived, one by messenger, one by fired arrow.

“Should we head out to set up camp?” Lavellan asked.

“No, we will have to stay in the city to look into these messages tomorrow. An inn would be the best alternative, I think,” Cassandra said.

Lavellan looked distressed. She had probably hoped to be able to put the city behind them as soon as possible. She agreed with the Seeker, however, who led the way into the city.

***

The innkeeper looked up from behind a large desk when they walked in. After briefly scanning them she returned to the papers scattered on the counter in front of her, a bored expression on her face. Through a side-door streamed warm light and muted voices.

“How can I help you?” she asked with a thick orlesian accent.

“We would like rooms for the night,” Cassandra said.

“You’re in luck. We have two rooms as well as housing for the servants., the innkeeper replied without raising her gaze. She fished out three sets of keys and threw them on the desk. “That will be two royals. Four additional crowns if you want dinner and breakfast.”

Cassandra and Lavellan both looked horrified and embarrassed by the woman’s assumptions.

“We’re not serv-” Lavellan began before Solas cut her off.

“That will be excellent. Thank you, miss.”

He bowed his head in feigned humility. To be assumed servants was much better then to be considered dangerous apostates, after all. He could tell that the other elf did not agree; her jaw was tense, her head held high and her eyes burning with indignation.

Stupid.

Luckily Varric quickly ushered her through the side-door as Cassandra paid. The tavern in the main room was fairly empty – maybe on account of the lateness of the hour, or the uncertainty in the area not doing much to attract travelers. They found a table and were soon given servings of poultry, potatoes and pies. Solas found the meal a welcome change after a week of less than excellent traveling food. He tore into the pastry, becoming more and more content for every bite.

Lavellan was still visibly cross though, and keeping quiet about it was apparently proving impossible.

“I can’t believe she called us servants!” she hissed. “Couldn’t she see my vallaslin?”

Ah, so _him_ being taken for a servant was not an issue. The true crime laid in assuming blood markings meant servitude. Of course. The irony and absurdity of it all completely failed to either anger, humor or sadden him. Instead he just felt thoroughly fed up.

“It is for the better,” he said dejectedly.

Varric tried to lighten the mood by telling everyone outrageous stories about orlesians. Solas was time and again thankful for the dwarf’s tact. His methods worked soundly and soon any earlier indiscretions were forgotten. Conversation eventually drifted towards the events of the day, finally landing on Lavellan’s conversation with the Chantry Mother.

“Do you truly not believe in the Maker?” Cassandra asked her.

“I am dalish, I believe in our own gods,” she responded.

Solas couldn’t imagine anything he would detest listening to more than a dalish vexing about elven gods and hoped that would be the last that was said on the subject. But the Seeker pressed on.

“And there is not room for one more?”

Lavellan huffed.

“For what purpose? We already have an angry deity who ignores his people.”

“That is not the role of the Maker!” Cassandra objected. “He challenges us to do better and to find community and strength among each other.”

“And such is also the role of the Dread Wolf,” Lavellan stated.

“I though the Dread Wolf was the bad guy,” Varric interceded.

“Both yes and no.”

Solas was growing exceedingly uncomfortable. He stared straightly down into his plate and tried to keep his face as void of expression as possible.

“He locked away the Creators, that is true,” Lavellan admitted. “And he often turns around on the people that ask for his help. But only ever if their request was unworthy or badly phrased. And he outsmarts, misdirects and deceives, rather than lies. The trails tests the People, always keeping us on our toes. And the scary stories are good for keeping the clans together and teaching the little ones a lesson.”

How wonderful that his name was invoked to scare children and advocate for clan mentalities, he thought sourly. That she didn’t think him a monster of boundless evil did little to stifle his irritation.

***

The servant housing was, thankfully, a secluded room, albeit a simple one. He was also very grateful for the two beds. One was decidedly nicer than the other and Lavellan immediately claimed the lesser one and offered him the nicer pick.

“Thank you, by the way,” she said as they prepared for bed. “For earlier, when I freaked out in the square.”

His previous irritation with her faded when he turned to look at her. Her wide smile pulled at the edges of her tattoos. It wall full of warmth and trust.

“I have never been in a city before. It was a bit, well… overwhelming.”

“Never?”

“No, I’ve traded with human cities, but we mostly met with them outside the city limits. And I’ve never seen anything close to the size of Val Royeaux.”

“I can see how that would be overwhelming.”

He gave her a small smile in return and settled in the bed.

Silence fell over the small room, and soon his eyelids grew heavy and his breaths slow.

The quiet was broken by a sudden giggle from Lavellan.

“Huh?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Sorry. It’s just that… well, this servant's bed in a run-down orlesian inn? By far the best bed I’ve ever slept in.”

He managed a short chuckle in return, even though he felt little amusement over the fallen grace of the People or the misfortunes it had brought her.

“Solas?”

“Yes?”

“Where did you learn elven?”

“I have learnt much in my journeys in the Fade. Speaking of which, you should probably fall asleep if you want me to show you Val Royeaux. It is an old city, and there is much to see.”

She smiled and immediately fell silent.

***

The following day the Inquisition accepted two new recruits. The Red Jenny archer was impulsive and rude, but ultimately harmless. The First Enchanter was her absolute opposite, planning, polite and extremely dangerous. Solas determined to keep an eye on her. While he was well versed in the play of power the orlesians called the Game, the Herald was not and Madame de Fer would no doubt have her own agenda in coming here. Most likely the reinstatement of her beloved Circles. To be First Enchanter of a non-existing organization did not amount to much, after all, and Vivienne struck him as the kind of person who would settle for nothing short of at least a little power.  

It was bittersweet to see their organization grow. While new followers and allies meant greater influence and power, it also came with added uncertainty and unsettled stability. He hoped, at least, that there next incensement would come in the form of the rebel mages, rather than the Templar order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations taken from FenxShiral.  
> Hamin: Rest, relax.  
> Ma Serannas: Thank you.  
> Da’rahn: It was a little thing, no problem.


	4. Small Truths

Upon their return to Haven his cabin offered a welcome solitude. Traveling with others was tiresome, and even more so when the people were little more than strangers to him. After unpacking he grabbed a book from the desk and sunk down on top of the bed.

He read for a while before his thoughts strayed from the pages and the text was left forgotten in his lap. Things had gone better than expected, these last few days. The Anchor was secure and out of the enemy’s reach, even though he did not possess it directly himself. The humans had decided to protect it and use it to right some of his wrongs, instead of fearing it and destroying it. And the threat of the Breach seemed to bring the affected parties together, rather than put even more a strain on the precarious situation. But there were still much left to uncertainty. His foci was completely missing. He had looked everywhere for the orb, but was left empty-handed.

And so much depended on it.

He sighed and closed the book still in his hands.

It could not have been destroyed in the blast. It could not.

Lavellan had without a doubt come into contact with it at some point, but if she was to be believed she had no memory of the event.

Neither the first time, nor – he suspected – the last, he cursed the fact that the Breach drove away spirits from the area, and corrupted those still in the vicinity. Otherwise surely one would have seen what had happened.

Now however, he was left guessing and grabbing at straws. 

The Herald had been ushered into the Chantry immediately upon their arrival, and thrust into the middle of a fervent debate. After an hour they appeared to be finished with her though, since he was pulled from his ponderings by the sound of her voice outside of his door.

“Psst, Solas. You awake?” she whispered, followed by a light knock.

His brows furrowed in confusion. What could she possibly want?

“I am. Come in.”

She cracked the door open just enough to step inside, and then carefully closed it behind her. Before he could as much as open his mouth in protest she had crossed the room and slumped down on the bed beside him.

“What are you-”

“I need your advice.”

He put the book away at his side and turned to her.

“We were discussing how to proceed with the Breach. Leliana wants to turn to the mages, Cullen, of course, favors the Templars. Josephine leans towards Leliana, and Cassandra towards Cullen. They are at a complete standstill and wants me to decide,” she explained quickly.

“And you need my help because…?”

“Because I trust you.”

Oh.

Okay.

He should be happy that he had managed to gain the trust of the Herald, the bearer of the Anchor and apparently someone with some say in Inquisition matters, but the fact that her trust in him was both misplaced and undeserved allowed for no such cheerfulness.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“I want to help the mages. Cassandra thinks they are only offering assistance to further their cause, but it would not bother me much if that was the case. If they want their freedom supported I’d be happy to oblige.”

“A commendable attitude,” he commented.

“And an unpopular one. You said it yourself; closing the Breach must be our priority. Can we do that without the support of those in power?”

He mulled over her question for a while.

“There are times were such things take priority. But putting an end to slavery should always take precedence. And with the mages' assistance, sealing the Breach will hopefully no longer remain a problem.”

“That brings me to one of my other concerns. Would it even work? Pouring magic into the Anchor, I mean. We do not know what it is or how it works.”

He, of course, knew exactly what it was and how it worked, but that could not be revealed.   

“I am certain it will,” he began. “The mark pulls at the Veil. Reshapes it. When pointed towards a rift it causes it to close, but the exertion draws power from it and its wielder. The greater the encumbrance, the more power is needed. But any mage should be able to supply it.”

“And you are certain?” she said, her voiced perfused with hope.

“I am. It is, at least, just as likely to succeed as the Templar’s technique.”

Now it was her turn to fall quiet. Her brows furrowed, her head turned down to stare at her hand and the pulsating shiver of green within it.

“You had other reservations as well?” he finally asked her.

She didn’t look up as she sighed, her shoulders slumped.

“Yeah.”

He waited patiently.

“I have some say in this matter, but that- It’s… I-I don’t hold a secure position here. Sure, they need this” – she gestured vaguely with her marked hand – “but they could just as well take me captive, or force me. They already have once, after all.”

She exhaled slowly and looked up towards him.

“I would like to promise the rebels the support and protection of the Inquisition, but it is not a promise I can necessarily keep. What if they aid us, a Chantry organization lead by an ex-Templar and a Seeker, only to be imprisoned because of it?”

Constant company over a prolonged time had left him socially exhausted. Too exhausted to keep up the distant façade he otherwise maintained. Instead he let his amazement and esteem show openly on his face. Not only was she painfully aware of how she was being used, she was also unwilling to put others in the same situation – to exploit the mages desperation and in the process hinder their cause. He had considered her an impulsive – if seemingly well-meaning – juvenile with little to no understanding of the world. Was she this good at hiding her insight, or had he simply misjudged her?

He realized that he’d been staring when she suddenly flustered and looked down, a small blush spreading across her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

She cleared her throat and continued.

“Approaching the Templars carry the same problem. It could be an opportunity to rail in the order and gain control over them, but could that control be maintained?”

“Supporting the mages will lend credence to their cause, making it harder to justify imprisoning them. And hopefully Leliana and Miss Montilyet’s views on the matter will prevent such a thing. Cassandra and Cullen hold the most impressive titles, but are ultimately fighters and do not possess the amount of influence our spy master and ambassador does.”

“I hope you are right, Solas. I really do.”

She smiled apologetically at him.

“Thank you. Again. For sharing your knowledge. I can’t seem to stop pestering you with questions.”

“It is of no consequence.”

“No,” she stated firmly. “It is.”

She frowned, as if trying to find the right words.

“Among my people, sharing knowledge is considered the greatest respect you can show someone,” she began hesitantly. “And you have always been generous with yours, hahren. Of this I am very grateful. If there is any way I can repay you, I will. I have promised to protect you to the best of my abilities, but you already know them to be limited.”

“That you choose to listen is repayment enough, da’len. It is… more than most people do.”

It thrilled him more than it should have, for his opinions to be valued. He had been turned away more times than he could count. _Liar. Fool. Madman_. The words still sharp in his mind, the memories still bitter. He had assumed she would be the same, yet here she was, in his room asking for his council. Treasuring it, even. A unmistakable warmth spread through him . Even though she should not really matter. She was not real, after all – not truly present.  

“Anyone who dismissed you would be a fool for it,” she said and shifted on the bed. She was now sitting facing him with her legs folded underneath her.

“I’d like to know more about you, Solas,” she stated, eyes locked firmly on his face.

“Why?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He suddenly felt trapped under her discerning gaze. By the Void, had he always been this bad at lying?

She laughed.

“That is not so strange, is it? For me to want to know more about you. I respect you, we travel together.”

“I am sorry. With so much fear in the air…”

He wasn’t completely certain himself whether or not he was backtracking or being sincere.

“What would you know of me?”

She had many questions, set like traps by an unsuspecting hunter. He dodged them best he may, but also tried to lie as little as possible, preferring to stick to half-truths and vague answers. Too much subterfuge quickly became hard to manage as lies gathered, like vermin under floorboards, multiplying and spreading, compromising the entire foundation of whatever was built upon.   

Or it had nothing to do with strategy. Perhaps he just wanted her to actually know him.

The mocking voice within him resurfaced.

_Lonely._

_Weak._

He ended up telling her about his travels and his love of the Fade. It was safe after all, to be honest about that. He talked at length about his friends in the spirit world. Of Purpose, Justice, Duty, Learning and Hope. Of friendly wisps, and of Wisdom. He awaited her response, already preparing for her condemnation, and became oddly relieved when it did not come.

“I did not think it possible. To be friends with spirits, I mean. Are they not very… singular?” was the only scepticism she voiced.

“Yes, but not more so than most people I encounter in the waking world.”

“Perhaps you would not find them so, if you spent some more time getting to know them,” she offered.

“I fear that you are wrong, but one can always hope,” he replied, and realized instantly that he had not asked her a single thing in return to her prodding.

Impoliteness would not do.

“What about you, then?”

Longing flashed across her face as she spoke of her clan. Of weather so warm you could swim comfortably in the lakes, of running barefoot through the fields with friends, her Keeper’s calm voice as she explained a complicated spell. She was much more open with her life than he had been. He sat for a long time, listening to lovingly detailed tales about how they would pass the time during watches, about late night with shared elfroot pipes and of her first love.

Her head came down to rest against his shoulder.

“My father cares for the halla,” she continued him. “He thought me how to ride them when I was only seven summers. I never wanted to get off. The Keeper had to drag me away from the pen.”

“What of your mother?”

“She is with Falon’din.”

“Ah, ir abelas.”

“Don’t be, it was a long time ago.”

Her voice was getting drowsy, and her weight against him heavier as she relaxed more and more.

He reached out and brushed her hair out of her face, tucking the strands behind her ear. She shivered as his fingers grazed it.

“You should return to your cabin, Ellana.”

“Or I could stay here.”

She said it like a question, her tone rising hopefully at the end. He froze, and his pulse quickened– surely she could hear it, from where she was sitting. He knew she did not mean it like that. She probably just wanted company while she slept. He had heard that it was common practice among the dalish to sleep as such.

“It is probably best if you return,” he managed and with a groan she pulled herself up and stretched.

“On nydha,” she said as she stumbled towards the door.

“Nydha.”

And then she was gone.

His heart was still beating frantically.

He felt every bit the madman he had been accused of being as he debated with his own thoughts. Turned everything over until he no longer knew what he wanted or how he felt. But surely it was not strange of him to consider bedding her? If she was not real – if she didn’t matter other than as a vessel – no harm could come out of it. He quickly banished the thoughts to the farthest corners of his mind. No good could come out of it either. It was not even something he was particularly interested in, he was simply starved for intimacy. Truly, it was embarrassing how easily he had been flustered.

It simply took you unawares, he reassured himself.

He pulled off his shirt and undershirt, letting the cool air chill his warm skin, and cleansed his aura and stretched in preparation for the night.

Perhaps he should seek out Wisdom?

It would be far away, of course, but he had little difficulty finding it, after all these years.

***

He called for it as soon as the Fade found him. It answered immediately and he reached across the world to find it by the shores of the Sundered Sea.

“Greetings, friend,” it welcomed him in elven.

“Hello.”

How good it was, to speak his language again.

It was resting on the rocks, watching the waves roll in over the oceanfront. The sun was setting, and the warm light reflected in Wisdom’s many eyes. The orange glow contrasted sharply against its glittering, blue from, and for a moment he was at a loss for words.

_Beautiful._

Absolutely breathtaking.

He sat down next to it.

“You are troubled,” it said.

It was a statement, not a question. He could never hide anything from it. Some of its eyes turned from the water to regard him. It listened intently as he told it of his troubles, and then spoke softly as it consoled him.

It took his hand with one of his own. As well as it could, without a physical body. It fingers felt strange against his own, tingling and cool, both there and not.  

They sat together the entire night, speaking until the tide had risen and retreated many times, and the sun had returned to the sky.

He woke to a village in full commotion.

It had been both decided and announced; they would leave for Redcliffe the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations:  
> Hahren: Elder  
> Da’len: Child  
> Ir abelas: I’m sorry.  
> On nydha: Good night.


	5. Hushed Whispers

There were many instances of Solas messing up. Of him failing to foresee something crucial, or acting without consideration of calculable consequences. Redcliffe was one of those times. That they were not defeated and the world not cast into ruin was by no accomplishment of his own, but could rather solely be credited to luck and Lavellan’s wit and perseverance.

But he should have realized what was going on before she disappeared from before him. Before she was sucked into a roaring vortex and was assumed dead. He should have realized already at the city gates.

***

The rift was strange. It sparked and pulsated just like the others. Spewed unsuspecting spirits, distorting and deforming them to monsters gone mad from the unwelcoming, harsh world of the waking. But around the rift where pillars of sizzling magic. Barriers that erupted from the sky and slowed down time. His arm was caught in one mid-spell, and he watched in fascination and horror as the sparks gathering in his hand slowed down, almost to a halt. He could follow the small strands of lightning as they forked from between his fingers and cracked into the air around it. Instinctively he pulled his hand away from the rippling in the air, but being trapped in the strange zone, as it was, it took time. When he was finally free he stepped away from it quickly, carefully avoiding the others like it already formed around the battlefield.

“What is that?” Varric shouted as he brought down a flaming rage demon.

“I don’t know,” Solas shouted back. “I have not seen anything like it.”

The strange magic dissolved with the rift, and they were all ushered through the gates. An Inquisition scout greeted them.

“You should know that no one here was expecting us. Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona,” he informed them.

That should have been Solas’ second clue.

A robed elf came hurrying towards them, then. He introduced himself as Lysas and quickly explained the situation.

What he told them was… worrying.

A magister by the name Alexius had taken over. Both the village and the rebel mages. Their meeting with Fiona was even more worrying. According to her, she had not spoken to them in Val Royeaux. He considered that she was lying – perhaps frightened of the man she was now indentured to – or that they had been approached by an impersonator. Perhaps this was the impersonator? He did not, of course, consider what he ought to. Did not connect it to the strange rift outside.

Alexius agreed to negotiate with the Inquisition in two days. While they spoke his son passed the Herald a note. A note leading them deeper into the confusing mess. What had the rebels gotten themselves into?

They all agreed that the invitation from Alexius was surely a trap, and that they should meet him prepared. Words were sent out to Inquisition soldiers.

And then they waited.  

They were given rooms at The Gull and Lantern. Separate ones, this time.

Varric was at the bar, talking animatedly with some of the other patrons. Cassandra was nowhere to be seen, and the Herald was in deep conversation with Lysas – the elf from the gates – by a small table.

Solas decided to sit back in a corner with his notebook, sketching idly as he listened to the exchanges around him. He tried to capture the fascinating rift from earlier, and focused on the sight of his spell caught half formed in his hand. The margins he filled with careful notes and observations in elven, chronicling the fight.

Lavellan’s bubbling laughter carried across the room. She was leaning forward, whispering something in the blushing elf’s ear.

Her intent was clear, even from where he was sitting. Elven hearing rendered leaning that close practically superfluous, even in a busy tavern, and the sensitivity of elven ears made the act anything but innocent.

The same thing was apparently obvious to the focus of her attentions, who recovered quickly from his embarrassment and returned the sentiments with giggles, heated glances and a touch of her hair.

Two drinks later they left together. Her hand was grasping his, and she laughed and pulled him eagerly up the stairs.

Solas return to his notebook and started sketching her marked hand. And then her smile. She had many of them. He settled for the one she had worn when she told him she trusted him. When he was done he wanted nothing but to tear the page out, cramping it into a ball and throwing it on the fire.

Instead, he carefully closed the notebook and placed it in his pack. After a while he was drawn into conversation with a young man named Connor.

***

Thankfully, there was a lot to do in Redcliffe while awaiting the negotiations. The mages had many stories to tell, and the area was thick with spirits. And there were of course hushed meetings of strategy with Lavellan, Cassandra and Varric.

Lysas joined them for dinner on the second evening. He seemed reluctant to part from Lavellan. Most likely boldened by her similar views he spoke passionately of the uprising.

“Everyone blames us,” he said. “But the Templars left the Chantry too. That’s worse, isn’t it? They took an oath, yet everyone calls it ‘the mage rebellion’. We’re the ones they hate. What choice did we have?”

“Sometimes to achieve the world one desires, one must take regrettable measures,” Solas agreed.

“Nonsense,” Varric huffed.

Solas shot him a questioning glance.

“Of course that’s true and all, but talk like that is dangerous, Chuckles. Its stuff like that which made people lock up mages in the first place.”

“Surely you see the difference between calls for resistance and lies spread by those in powers to uphold hierarchies?”

“Yeah, but there is resistance and then there is vengeance.”

Lysas spoke again.

“And what has the rebellion done that can be qualified as baseless violence?”

“I am not saying you have, kid,” Varric responded. “But I was in Kirkwall. I saw the Chantry blow up, and let me tell you, that did little good.”

“Of course it did!” Lysas retained. “It made sure the injustice and mistreatment could no longer be ignored.”

Lavellan placed a calming hand on Lysas’ arm.

“Hopefully you will join causes with the Inquisition soon, making such actions unnecessary in the future.”

She smiled Varric down until he sighed and returned to his meal.

Cassandra looked like she had no idea how she’d ended up at a table with three radical, elven apostates.  

***

He needed to think the people surrounding him unreal to be able to fulfill his duty. That he had maintained firmly. It was vital that he considered them nothing more than shadows – echoes of what was – to be able to go through with his plans.

Or so he thought before Redcliffe.

Redcliffe changed everything.

Their soldiers and agents had silently been placed into position. Dorian and Felix were prepared. Cassandra, Varric and himself kept close to the Herald as they entered the castle.

Alexius was waiting for them in the main hall.

They spoke, and then suddenly she was gone. The air had opened and swallowed her whole, taking Dorian with it.

For the first time ever he saw something akin to fear on Cassandra's face. It mirrored the feeling of utter hopelessness creeping across his chest and spreading like poison through his veins. Where was the Herald? Where had she gone?

And then, just as suddenly as she had vanished, she returned. Tumbling out of nothingness and covered in blood.

Redcliffe changed everything, but the change was most evident in her.

She looked like all happiness had been torn from her piece by piece. Panicked, wounded and heartbroken.

As their soldiers arrested Alexius she scrambled down the stairs and straight into his arms. She clutched and clung to him like she could be torn away again any time, plucked out of existence and returned to wherever she had gone.

Her rapid string of “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, Solas. Please forgive me,” was muffled against his shirt and by the violent sobs that overtook her.

When they finally understood what had happened he couldn’t beat himself up enough. He should have been more perceptive. He should have seen the clues. At no time during the last couple of days had he stopped to carefully consider the explanation for the perplexing going-ons. At no time had he considered time travel.

It was Dorian who explained it all to them.

She was silent, staring blankly ahead like she could not actually see anything in front of her. Or staring at them intensely, like if she had never actually seen them before.

It was clear the world was different to her, now. That she was different

And under the lee of a tent, the following night, she changed everything for him, as well.

“An entire world, Solas. An entire world full of people, and now it’s gone.”

Her words were nothing but a whisper, barely audible despite the stillness of the night around them.

“It was not real, Ellana. It never happened.”

He said it to soothe her. It had the opposite effect. Her eyes darkened and when she spoke her words were sharp and absolute.

“Yes, it was! It was real, they were real. You were real. I made it go away, but it does not mean that it was never there. Or that the suffering you went through there didn’t happen. Wasn’t felt.”

Anguish welled up within him at her words. She should not speak like this. It was too close. Too similar.

“You did what you had to,” he spurted out weakly. “There was no other way.”

“And who am I to decide who and what is beyond saving? Since when do I get to decide who is doomed? Which world is doomed?”

He had never, in his life, been faced with a question to which an assured answer from his part was more vital. He had also never been faced with a question he was this uncertain about.

She  resumed her blank staring. Her eyes were fixed at the wall of the tent as she continued speaking, which was lucky, because he was barely containing himself. Distress and doubt coiled inside of him, threatening to spill out. He felt both hollow and too full at the same time.

“I… I think that what I did was the best chance we had at survival. I think it was the best alternative out of two shitty options. But I can’t ignore what I did. They were real and I killed them. I have to remember that. Anything else would be a lie. A terrible lie to make myself feel better and rid myself of the responsibility.”

She pulled her eyes away from whatever she was looking at. Somewhere beyond the tent. Somewhere beyond this world, that he could not see. Instead she turned to him.

“They fought so hard, Solas. They deserve my respect. They deserve my guilt and they deserve my grief.”

It was too much. In his time she would be considered a child. He hadn’t even considered her anything at all. But here she was, shouldering things he fled from. Facing things he thought impossible.

Her words rang true.

He felt both numb and overwhelmed. His thoughts were like a stormy sea crashing against him, their waves hammering at his equanimity. Uncertain and chaotic. But at the same time they were also completely still, like the undisturbed surface of a pond. Like sudden clearness, uncluttered by the many little lies he had told himself across the years.

They were real.

Painfully, horrible real.

And he had to kill them.

But how do you live while all else is dead?

How do you doom an entire existence?

How do you bury a world?

***

When she finally slept she dreamt of red. He hurried towards her as the Fade around her twisted violently, inflamed lyrium shooting out at them in every direction. It was hard to tell where bodies ended and stone began, or if the wailing song came from the people or the lyrium growing out of their broken frames.

He saw his body being thrown across a room. An arrow hitting Leliana in the chest. Varric’s blood spread on demon's claws and his loop-sided smile wiped from hos face.

“Wake up!” he urged and as she did the Fade went still. He allowed himself a brief moment alone in the emptiness before following her.

He lifted his blanket so that she could crawl underneath it.

“I’m so lucky to have you as a friend,” she whispered as she settled in his bedroll. In his mind he had denied any such thoughts, all such things, but as soon as she spoke the word he knew it was true.

Friend.

Yes, they were friends.

Too exhausted to wallow in the wrongness of it he contented to simply enjoy it instead.

His first waking friend in a thousand years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, changed some things around in the Redcliffe quest. The canon structure is great for games, but just the worst for stories. I also couldn't help myself from squeezing some Lysas in there. I mean, Abelas is great and all, but the underappreciated Redcliffe rebel definitely tops my "cute elf guys with no screen time"-list.


	6. Fresh Faces

The realizations of the previous night laid heavily on him. It was difficult to look at the others. It hurt to hear them talk. As soon as he had recognized their claim to personhood – as soon as he had allowed himself to see it – it had become painfully obvious. He saw them in everything. Cassandra’s whole person shone through in every word she spoke, Varric soul was visible in his every wink and grin and Lavellan’s eyes seemed to contain the depths of oceans, rivaling perhaps even that of the Fade.

It only served to upset him further. His first instinct was to recoil. To distance himself from them. That was his first instinct to most things. But then her words from the night before came back to him. To distance himself, just to make it easier for himself, was a feeble and shameful attempt to avoid the weight of what was to come. Wasn’t it the very thing he criticized the dalish for; running away from anything promising to challenge their set perception of the world? So sometimes he would catch himself sitting quietly, pulling away or retiring early, and he would try to stop himself. To engage, instead.

But it was proving difficult.

The situation did not allow for him to be open about himself, and countless years of caution could not be easily untaught.  And how could he relate to them? They were nothing alike. Their worries were trivial and shallow when compared to the fate of a world. Their minds relegated to this time, this perspective, incapable of seeing past themselves and beyond the material realm in front of them. Some, like Sera, even reveled in their ignorance, proud over their incapacities and limitations. Vivienne was alike. When demonstrating her narrow understanding of the world, she presented predetermined perceptions, inanity and lack of both risk or reflection like positive things. He doubted he would ever be able to bond with people like that, even _if_ he would have fitted into their neatly organized views of good and evil, safe and dangerous.

The others did not seem to share his hardships in regards to socializing. They were making fast friends, like you were supposed to. He thought back to when he had called them singular, and her words echoed in his mind; _perhaps you would not find them so, if you spent some more time getting to know them._ Luckily, he was given ample time to practice. The Inquisition was steadily growing and the new recruits eventually all approached him.

The results were…. mixed.

Dorian, the mage they had encountered at Redcliffe, was eager to discuss magical theory and Fade physics with him, and since his cabin was a stone throw away from Solas’ there was little avoiding him. But no matter how stimulating the discussions were, the man was infuriating.

“Do you use spirits as servants, Solas?” Dorian asked him one evening, having knocked on his door with an armful of texts and countless topics prepared for discussion.  “You'd have no trouble capturing them.”

He shot the fellow mage a dark look, and repressed a memory; _Pride is dangerous. It must be kept. Controlled._

“No. They are intelligent, living creatures,” he asserted. “Binding them against their will is reprehensible.”

Dorian seemed completely inapprehensive to his foul mood, and continued as before.

“But how much ‘will’ could they have? They're amorphous constructs of the Fade. There's no harm putting them to constructive use, and most mages back home treat them well.”

Eager to change the subject, Solas simply settled for being spiteful.

“And any that show any magical talent are freed, are they not?”

“What do you mean? Spirits don't have magical talent,” Dorian answered, confused.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were talking about your slaves.”

Dorian huffed.

“All customs look peculiar when seen from the outside, you know. You are used to your alienages, but that does not make them inherently better.”

“I am _not_ from an alienage.”

“Oh, well. From the south then.”

This time, even Dorian seemed to be aware of the tension between them, at least. He excused himself with a hurriedly cobbled together story of a date at the tavern, gathered his texts and were off.

Solas was happy to see him go. No amount of magical theory would ever excuse slavery.

The Iron Bull, another of the new additions to the organization, had also approached him. Probably to keep tabs. The man was Ben-Hassrath, after all. And disturbingly observant. While making vulgar jabs and rash comments he was carefully monitoring everything, surely making note of things to investigate or exploit. Solas was used to that sort of treatment though. He had learned how to play the Game long before Orlais was ever envisioned, long before humans had even set foot in Thedas. The Iron Bull knew he was hiding something, but Solas was confident he could probably keep him guessing for years before he would even come close to the truth.

Out of all the new faces, Warden Blackwall was the one he got along with the best. There was a quiet understanding between them. Neither wished to talk about their violent pasts, and both shared a dislike for the unrealistic, glorified images of battle that was sometimes thrown around by the younger members. And he taught Solas the game diamondback without complaining when Solas then continued to thoroughly beat him. Always a plus.

The rapid expansion of the Inquisition also allowed for some of his agents to finally join. Eda ended up a maid, Ritts got work as a scout and Vol enlisted as a soldier. Barely two weeks into her employment Ritts managed to mess up completely. Solas couldn’t really be angry with her, though. At her age he had also sometimes sacrificed duty for the sake of a beautiful woman, and in the end her indiscretion worked to their favor as she was assigned as a spy under Leliana.

One thing about Redcliffe still bugged him though.

Okay.

Many things about Redcliffe bugged him, but one thing in particular.

The Elder One.

The name was not familiar, yet Alexius claimed that he was behind the explosion at the Conclave. But Solas knew who had been behind the explosion: Corypheus, carrying his foci. But the magister had died in the blast. This Elder One was probably taking credit where there was none, or he had been working with Corypheus.

Whoever he was, Solas had the feeling that they had not seen the last of him.


	7. Doubts

At first Solas had enjoyed having a new friend. Lavellan was still noticeably withdrawn after Redcliffe, but she found time for him even though she did not seem to be in the mood for talking. They mostly sat in comfortable silence, just enjoying each other’s company while reading, mending clothes or meditating. They would sometimes accompany each other on small treks up the mountainside gathering herbs and plants, and the clean air and the clear sky did wonders for them both.

And at first Solas had been content with this new thing. This friendship between them.

But then old doubts had creeped in.

Doubts older than the mountain they walked upon or the trees surrounding them.

Doubts born from wicked games in great halls, pointed glances across adorned floors and riddles whispered between the walls of narrow corridors.

Was she doing this as a part of the Game?

Was this simply a grab for power? A trick.

His stomach felt heavy and knotted as his mind conjured up images of her shared laughs with Josephine, of her hand running down Cullen’s chest. Of her voice; “Cassandra, I need your advice on a matter.”

She had come to him with the exact things it had taken to break him. Acceptance, interested questions, a thirst for knowledge and a comfortable stillness riddled with small touches to keep him constantly off guard and open.

The doubt hit him like a charging dragon one night while he was lying in bed. He curled up into himself, pulling the covers high and hiding his head.

How could he be so utterly stupid?

How could he think anyone would actually want him for a friend? For anything?

Slowly he calmed himself. His breaths returned to normal and his muscles relaxed.

This was the stupid part, he decided. Surely, only a deceiver such as himself would be so quick to assume the same liabilities in others? She had not truly given him any reason to doubt her intentions, and this was just his old mind sticking to lessons taught in another life. He was no one here. He was no one to her. She had no reason to trick him. No reason to seek him out other than her own wish to do so.

Or was there anything she could want from him?

He mulled it over for a long time. He was still deep in thought as the last patrons were ushered out of the tavern and passed outside on their way back to their beds. As the village turned quiet and the only sounds remaining were the wind in the trees and the birds hooting from within the forest.

The answer came to him in parts. The longing that filled her face as she spoke of her clan, the tension which strained her shoulders when she spoke to some of the villagers, the happiness in her voice when he answered her in elven.

She was homesick. And he was familiar. At least more familiar than everything else. Yes, that must be it.

The realization filled him with disappointment. She was not much different than the rest of them. Didn’t see past his ears either, just ascribed them with positive traits, rather than deleterious ones.

Or maybe this was a fault in him, thinking so lowly of her?

Ugh.

It had to do, to be confused and broken, for tonight. Not everything could be solved by over analyzing it to bits. He resorted to casting a small spell, putting him to sleep. Only a second after the low, mumbled words left his lips he was in the dreaming.

***

The rebel mages took longer to gather then they had first thought. They were spread out all across southern Thedas, and it took time to send for them, convince them that this was indeed not a trick and no, they were not in danger from the Inquisition, and for them to then make the trip to Haven.

There would be no attempts at the Breach in at least three weeks, so the Herald decided to set out towards the Hinterlands where there were still rogue Templars to be dealt with.

Lavellan was still distant. She watched the landscape in silence and hardly looked to their companions. Solas wanted nothing more than to cheer her up. To draw her out and away from the dangers of her own thoughts, but he did not know how to. Didn’t know what to say. He felt helpless, watching her subdued when she was otherwise so lively.

Luckily, other succeeded where he fell short.

“So, I was thinkin,” Sera began. “if we’re the knife-ears, that would make the humans spoon-ears, right?”

Lavellan looked completely taken off guard by the comment, quickly turning her head to regard Sera. And then she laughed. A loud, happy laugh bubbling out of her, putting creases by her eyes and light in her face.

“Creators, I had never thought about that!”

“Just makes sense, yeah. Proper dollops the whole lot.”

Solas couldn’t stop a small smile from forming on his own face.

He had never thought about that either.

The Iron Bull soon joined the giggling elves, and Solas fell back with Cassandra. She regarded him thoughtfully for a while before speaking up.

“I confess, Solas, I am surprised you decided to remain.”

“Why? The Breach remains a threat to us all.”

“Just the same, I wondered if you might leave now that we have a plan to seal it.”

It was not surprising that she thought so, especially not considering their very first conversations. But still disappointing.

“Ah, because I am an apostate, I might flee before the Inquisition throws me in chains? I take my commitments seriously, Seeker. Come what may, I shall see this through.”

“As you wish, though I cannot guarantee what will happen in the days to come.”

It was not a concern of his, the risk of being jailed and hurled off to some new, make-shift Circle. He had agents that he trusted to break him out the case of imprisonment. But the possibility of it happening still left a sour taste in his mouth.

“If you could, what would be your verdict?” he asked her.

“I do not know.”

Well, that was something, at least.

***

The Templar encampment was a mess. A mess for them to attack, that is, and a calculated masterwork when it came to defensive construction. It was on a raised space sitting between a river and a mountain, and the only access point was a narrow path along the mountainside. The actual camp only had one entrance, and it was surrounded by raised covers for archers to hide behind, making the crisscross route into the actual camp a total deathtrap.

They debated their options for a long time before coming to a conclusion. Sera would hike up to the side of the camp, shooting at the Templars from above. When Cassandra had asked if she could really hit armoured targets at such a distance she had huffed indignantly and refused any other plan. In the meantime Solas and Lavellan would walk along the river, hidden from the camp, and then scale the cliffs behind it. While remaining hidden they would then light the thing aflame, forcing the Templars out through the entrance were Cassandra and Bull would charge them, and the elves would cover them with ranged attacks.

At first, everything went fine. The rippling from the river covered their steps as Solas and Lavellan snuck past the camp. Though Solas doubted anyone would have heard them anyway. Their bare feet barely made any sound as they walked across the wet grass and the slippery rocks. When they reached the edge of the camp it was time to climb the rock face. They had both insisted that it was within their abilities, but now it proved harder than they had previously thought. After some unsuccessful attempts they decided to take turns; that he would go first without his staff, and that she would hand it to him once he was on the top. All was agreed to under complete silence, with gesticulations and nods. He put his staff on the side of the wall and searched the stone for good leverage. When his fingers finally closed around an outlier he heaved himself up against the cliff. She was immediately behind him, helping him by giving him purchase for his feet as he treked higher. The edge at the top was the hardest. His arms were shaking and his hands cramping, and it was difficult to crawl over the brink. Luckily there were some stones he could grab as he pulled himself up. He gave himself a brief moment, counting down one, two, three, four, five before laying down on his stomach, reaching down towards Lavellan. She began with his staff, stretching her arm to hold it up as high as she could. He grabbed it and placed it on his side, and they then repeated the process with hers. Somewhere above them Sera was probably getting restless.

Then it was Lavellan’s turn. She was much shorter than he was, with shorter arms and legs. She made up for it by being a much more skilled climber though. When she was close enough for him to reach he offered his hand and helped pull her over the edge. They shared a small smile in the darkness before turning towards the camp.

Pressed close to the cliffs they approached, making sure to stay hidden from view. Everything hinged on them escaping notice, otherwise they were in big trouble. Finally in position they exchanged a brief look. The quiet question in his eyes were answered by a short nod from her. They were ready.

They both placed their fire mines in the back of the camp, and poured large amount of mana into them. Fresh lyrium potions were at their side, and they needed the flames to take immediately, spreading across the camp and dousing it in smoke.

With perfect timing they realized their spells, and then ducked back into cover and listened intently. At first they heard nothing. Then the crackling and sparks of the mounting fire could be heard, soon followed by shouts. And then screams. A low whistling sound told them Sera had begun firing arrows.

They remained behind the covers gripping their staffs, until they heard Bull’s war cry echo across the battlefield. Their signal. Solas quickly raised a barrier around them and then they flew out from behind the safety of the cliffs.

They were met with utter chaos. Large flames rose from within the camp, and they could hear screams and the clashing of weapons from the other side. They kept to the side of the camp, trying to avoid the thick, dark smoke. Their steps were hurried as they rushed to join their outnumbered companions.

The warriors, together with Sera, had already taken out all of the archers. Left were four Templars. The Iron Bull had their attention. He swinged his club at them, while Cassandra charged into one from the side, toppling her over onto the ground. Cassandra quickly stuck her sword at the opening between the Templars chest plate and helmet, and blood spewed from the severed throat. One of the Templars turned their attention from Bull to Cassandra, who quickly had to withdraw and put her shield up. The other Templar was left at the ground, dying slowly and gurgling on her own blood as the grass underneath her turned red.

The air around the warriors rippled as Solas places a barrier around them. Lavellan was casting, that much was clear, but he couldn’t see what she was doing. She was twirling her staff and murmuring in rushed and broken elven, and he could feel the Veil as she pulled it around herself and drew from beyond it. Suddenly she struck the end of her staff against the ground, and roots shot up at one of the Templars, twisting around his legs and trapping him. His shout turned from startled to terrified, and then slowly to pained as Lavellan made a violent motion that caused the roots to tighten. A loud crack could be heard from his legs as they were bent and mangled. And then suddenly the roots loosened, falling to the side and releasing the Templar from their hold. He fell to the ground and began crawling away from the fight, his terrified eyes visible even through his helmet.

The reason that her spell had been interrupted became instantaneously apparent. They had missed a Templar still inside the camp. He stood a couple of meters to their right with his hand still raised from delivering the holy smite. One second Lavellan was standing, staff in hand, casting furiously. The other her small body became still and she fell to the ground with a thump, staff dropped in the grass as her connection to the Fade was cut off and all mana violently forced from her aura. Solas could feel panic grip him as she fell. Everything around him turned silent except for the loud beating of his heart drumming in his ears. He snarled as he turned towards the Templar, who was already directing his attentions to him. Solas expanded his barrier, and sent it full force into the Templar, causing him to crash over the edge of the cliff and into the river below. His armour collided loudly against the rocks beneath. Solas hurried towards the edge and looked down at the man. Still twitching. He electrified the river, sending sparks of lightning dancing across the rippling surface.

Lavellan was regaining consciousness. Her breaths were quick and shallow, and Solas immediately recognized the signs of a mounting panic attack. He dragged her away from the fight. With only two Templars left, and one of them seriously maimed, the rest of their teammates could undoubtedly handle themselves.

“Relax,” he told her as he kneeled in the grass and propped her up against him.

“You are going to be okay. Listen to my voice. Just my voice. There you go. Now breathe out, and then slooooowly back in again. You are doing so well.”

After a while he had managed to coached her back to him. Her breaths were still strained and she clutched the front of his robes tightly. The sounds of battle around them quieted down, and soon the warriors came hurrying towards them.

“Is she harmed?” Cassandra demanded.

“She got hit with a holy smite. She will recover, but needs to rest,” he responded.

“Of course. We head for the camp at once.”

The Seekers voice softened as she turned to Lavellan.

“Can you walk?”

She didn’t respond. She was still holding onto him tightly as he pulled her up in standing position. He caught her as her legs gave out from underneath her, still too weak to stand.

Bull made a move, as if to pick her up.

“I’ve got her,” Solas assured.

Her eyes locked with his and she nodded her consent. He grabbed her under the knees and scooped her up into his arms.

“Grab her staff,” he ordered the Iron Bull before making his way out from the burning, bloodied camp.

***

Sera freaked out when she met them at the campsite. She went off on a long rant about Templar bastards with freaky powers, and Solas quietly agreed with her angry ramblings. He placed Lavellan’s head in his lap and cradled it with his hands as he helped her down some water. Cassandra and the Iron Bull were putting up their tents while he tended to her.

“Can you eat?” he asked.

She shook her head faintly.

“Just wanna sleep,” she mumbled.

He helped her into their tent as soon as it had been raised. Luckily she only wore some light leather armour pieces. He undid their lacings and placed them to the side and then removed her foot wraps. It was cumbersome to get the robes over her head. She helped some, but could not do much more than to lift her arms and duck her head. Left afterwards were her breastband and pants. For the first time he could follow the lines of her vallaslin, spilling down her throat as they fanned out across her collarbones. The patterns were continued over her arms and chest, covering them almost completely, her skin only visible in the negative space between the bold paterns. He had only seen hints of the marks previously, peeking out at her wrists as she rolled up a shirtsleeve. Now he could see all of the curls, dots and lines, fading into areas of solid blackness. This was a dalish tradition. He had never seen vallaslin other than on faces in Elvhenan. He liked it, he realized with some surprise. It reminded him of the elaborate decorations they used to paint on each other in preparations for parties and festivals. Bare skin still covered in intricate designs.

At first he decided to leave her like that, in breastband and pants, but then she began working on her belt. Her fingers were weak and clumsy against the buckle and after watching her from the corner of his eye for a while it became clear that she would have little success on her own. He hesitated for a moment before reaching down and undoing it for her.

“Thanks,” she murmured while laying back and lifting her hips.

Oh.

She wanted him to take her pants off.

He could feel a blush spreading across his face, skin burning on his cheeks and ears. This was stupid. She was hurt and trusted him in caring for her, and he proved to be an incompetent fool flustering at the thought of seeing her skin.

His hands trembled as he grabbed her pants by the belt hooks and pulled them down. They were tight and required tugging and towing. The tattoos were just as prevalent here, and as more and more of her skin was exposed to him he could follow the bold marks on their way down her legs. They curled around her hips and thighs in big, uninterrupted bands, adorned her knees with intricate locks and continues down to the very top of her feet. In certain areas the pattern was made by black on skin, and in others gaps in the ink made designs emerge in the empty space. There were leaves, arrows, stars and spells. Wherever he looked he found something new.

The pants were hard to pull over her feet. As he fumbled he looked up briefly, tearing his eyes from the patterns on her legs, and met her gaze. She was propped up on her elbows, looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. He had been caught staring.

“Sorry,” he blurted out. “I was just- Your tattoos. I was just admiring your tattoos.”

“Admiring? So you like them, then?”

An exhausted smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“I do,” he admitted, finally getting the damned pants off of her.

Her small smile turned into a wide grin before she lay back against the bedroll. He pulled the blanket up over her and tucked her in. She sighed contently, and then fell asleep within seconds.

So soon after a smite there was no way she would enter the Fade. Tonight, he was quite happy about that. The fear he had felt at the thought of her being injured had not just been about the Anchor, not just been about her part in his plans. He cared for her, the feelings just as real as her existence, her presence and her soul. Losing her would be…

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He needed Wisdom tonight. He quickly prepared for the night and crept under his blanket.

Wisdom came to him, this time.

He could feel its presence close by. They met by the memory of the large waterfall next to the camp, it’s crashing water the same in the Fade. Except of course for it not being physical here. He was at no danger of being swept away as he waded out in the stream, sitting down at a large stone at its crest. Wisdom joined him and he muted the sounds from the thunderous torrent so that they could speak easier.

“You have come to me seeking things I cannot give,” it said.

“How so?”

“You wish for certainty in questions where there should be none.”

“Should there not be certainty in questions regarding the life and death of an entire world?” he responded, and did his best to calm the anger that rose within him. It was supposed to help him with this, he couldn’t do it alone.

“There is no true answer to your dilemma. No one veracity that will put everything into place. Worlds are diverse. Chaotic. They do not clean up easily. They do not fall into assorted spaces or follow strict rules. But even if that was the case, and even if such a single truth existed, I would not wish for you to have it, friend.”

He felt beaten. Absolutely crestfallen.

“Why?”

“Because it is vital that you question yourself. That there is doubt and wavering when making a decision of this magnitude. However much it pains me to see you suffer so.”

“They are real,” he said weakly.

“Yes.”

“It changes so much. But nothing can be changed.”

“Nothing is inevitable,” it countered, calm as ever.

They sat in silence then, looking out over the landscape stretching out in front of them before Wisdom spoke again. Its voice was low, little more than a gentle whisper. Had he not known it, he could have taken it for Compassion.

“It is not just your own ability you question, but the foundation of your plans. What you once considered a simple decision, a worthwhile sacrifice, has now been made more complicated. As is the nature of things. The world is never simple, my friend. Nor should it be. But I will be by your side through it all. You do not have to be alone.”

“If it truly is that complicated, then how do I know right from wrong?” he sighed.

“By assessing, by observing, by questioning yourself. Through wisdom.”

“What do you deem wise, then? I seem incapable of telling.”

“You know that I do not approve of your plans, Pride. But I understand your need for them, as well as your reasons. And you are too quick to discredit yourself. You would not still draw me, after all these years, if there was no wisdom in you. What you are doing now – doubting. That is wise. The questions you ask, they tell of thoughtfulness and introspection.”

“Thank you.”

“But you are right about being foolish when it comes to her,” it quickly added.

He furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Sometimes a friend is just that. A friend. If she cares for you, let her."

If he did not know the spirit, he would not have recognized the strange twist in its form as the smile it was.

“I’ll have to kill her, Wisdom.”

“Nothing is inevitable,” it repeated, and he knew better then to press the matter further.

“I recently visited the memory of one of your new companions,” it said after a while.

“Really? Which one?”

“Leliana.”

“And what did you see?”

“It was old, and to the east. She traveled with the one they call the hero of Ferelden, to a dalish clan.”

Solas listened carefully as it told him the story. A story of death, curses, old magic and immortality.

“She was different then. Different from what you have shown me,”

“Who?”

“Leliana. In the memory, she was vibrant and faithful, almost foolish in her beliefs. Now, she appears calculated and cynical. At least from what you have shown me.”

“Would you deem her wiser now?”

“Hmm. It is hard to say, without seeing her for myself. But no. Being in opposition with an entire world is hard. Holding on to your beliefs and principles become a necessity then, since they are the only things guiding you.”

He pondered Wisdom’s words for a long time. It had not answered his questions, instead giving him more to think about. As was often the case with Wisdom. Despite his uncertainty he felt at peace by its side, though, and he sat back to enjoy it before the waking pulled him back to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being covered in tattoos myself, I love the idea of full body vallaslins. They are just the best. I imagine they would have different styles, of course based on what the face designs looks like, but that some would slightly resemble polynesian and celtic styles, together with some blackouts and dotwork mixed in. All solid, single colour ink with a pretty bold application and some thinner, finer lines. Being a nerd I of course made a pinterest board with dalish tattoo inspo. Link below if anyone is interested :) And I would love to hear your body-mod headcanons!  
> https://www.pinterest.se/firstofclanlave/dalish/


	8. Bringer of Nightmares

The group packed up their camp and headed back towards Haven first thing the next day. With Lavellan still recovering from the smite it would be too risky to try and close any rifts, and most enemies were taken care of with the apostates back in Haven, and the Templars now dead.

On the way they stopped by Dennet’s farm. The watchtowers he had asked for were not yet completed, but he agreed to lend a horse to the fatigued Herald. At first she looked like she was about to say something when he called her a halla rider, but then decided against it and just thanked him for the horse.

She was visibly uncomfortable on the creature. After only a couple of hours she began shifting in the saddle, and after a while she even asked if they could remove it and have her ride without. Which they couldn’t, since no one was really up to carrying it.

“From the look of it, it almost seems like you’ve never been on a horse before,” the Iron Bull remarked after a particularly loud whine from her.

“I haven’t. Halla rider, remember?”

“Is that very different? I’ve never ridden a halla, myself.”

“Unfortunately, I doubt one could carry you,” she chuckled. “But yeah, they are very different. Quicker, lighter and you ride them completely without saddle or reins. And most importantly, they are a lot narrower. This guy” – she patted the horse beneath her – “is seriously killing my hip joints.”

“Hah! Not used to spreading em, huh?” Sera giggled, and Cassandra huffed in distaste.

“Well, being hailed as the Herald of Andraste haven’t really done wonders for my sex life, I’ll give you that.”

Solas tried his best to ignore their conversation, instead opting to memorize the partially overgrown statues they passed so that he could draw them when they set camp. It proved difficult. The others were, well… loud.

“That’s not what I heard,” Bull bellowed at his side. “I heard you hooked up with a pretty elf boy in Redcliffe.”

Cassandra’s “This is hardly appropriate!” was immediately hushed by both Sera and Bull.

“Yeah, whoever told you he was pretty was correct, all right,” Lavellan said wistfully. “You should have seen him, Bull. You would have loved him.”

“Oh you know me. I’ll go for a pretty elf any day,” he replied with a wink towards Lavellan. It drew another scowl from Cassandra.

“Ugh. Stop it, will you?” she snapped.

“Oh come on. Don’t be such a stick in the mud, yeah?” Sera exclaimed.

Bull was more tactful and opted to changing the subject. It was of course probably impossible to be less tactful than Sera, though, Solas thought.

“So Boss,” Bull began, “what has that freaky root thing you did back at the Templars’?”

Suddenly they had Solas undivided attention.

“It’s called uralas'falon,” Lavellan explained. “Dalish nature magic.”

Now it was Solas’ turn to huff. Like it had anything to do with them. Like they had any idea what its actual history was.

“I assure you, there is nothing dalish about it,” he interjected.

“What are you talking about?”

“It is much older than the dalish. It is ancient, and goes back to Elvhenan itself.”

She relaxed then, and smiled.

“Oh, yeah. But same thing, really. Dalish culture is ancient elven culture.”

He had never heard anything more outrageous in his life. If it wasn’t so infuriating he would have laughed.

“Oh, excuse me. I forgot that you are the sole keepers of the lost lore, the last of the Elvhenan,” he retorted, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And never again shall we submit,” she finished, completely void of irony, looking down at him from the saddle with her head raised stubbornly.

“Clearly they do not submit to reason, or to truth.”

“Enough!” she practically yelled.

It was followed by an awkward silence. He glared angrily at her before averting his gaze. She had never raised her voice like that before. Not to anyone, except perhaps a couple of demons.

“I will not have you insult my people,” she added, without shouting this time.

“They insult themselves.”

“Solas!” Cassandra gasped.

“Woah, woah, woah. Let’s take it easy, alright?” Bull said as Sera muttered something about elfy elves elfin about.

***

When they set up camp things were still tense between them. Lavellan wouldn’t look his way, stubborn and prideful as she was. His mind conjured up unsought memories of his past experience with the dalish. Of being driven away with ignorant words, threats and violence. “If the dalish have done you a disservice, I would make that right.” she had told him. Yet as soon as something he said went against her beliefs, she had attacked. “Anyone who dismissed you would be a fool for it.” Yet here she was, doing the very same thing.

They ate in silence.

“Cassandra, care to share a tent with me?” Lavellan asked the Seeker as they finished up.

“I-Sure,” Cassandra responded with a badly concealed glance towards him. He focused on cleaning out his dish.

Sera bunked with the Iron Bull, leaving him alone by the small fire.

He was still irritated. Way too fired up to sleep.

He instead pulled out his sketchbook and tried to copy the statues he had seen earlier. When he was done he flipped through the older drawings. There were demons, rifts, runes and murals, as well as faces, animals and flowers. And then there was her. He contemplated drawing her again, trying to capture her tattoos, but quickly dismissed it when he realized that he’d have to draw her in her smallclothes. That would clearly overstep all rules of decency. And someone would have to uphold decorum, even if she could not be trusted to. Besides, he was furious with her, his mind reminded him. Right.

He settled for drawing the tree roots shooting out from the ground, mangling the Templar in their hold. It did at least offer some comfort, that there were things of old that were remembered, even here and now. And even if the dalish claimed ownership over them.

The memory of their argument returned to him, and he sighed and buried his face in his hands. He fell asleep by the fireplace, curled in a blanket and staring into the flames eating their way through the wood.

***

He found no consolation in his dreams. Instead of entering the Fade, he slept like any other. Unable to shape the images around him. Witch was unfortunate, as he found himself in a nightmare.

Hands gripped at him, pulling him down into a prison of flesh. Fear gripped him, for the first time like this. For the first time this sharp. As the strange emotions rushed into him he was certain he would break. Shatter or twist, disfigured or broken. That was what the pounding in his center had to mean. That he was falling apart from the inside. It took him a long time to realize that it was the frantic beating of his heart he felt. His very own heart. Her voice the first thing he heard, in this existence as well as the earlier. “Welcome, my Pride.” she crooned, as she brushed his then long hair out of his face.

Hands gripped him again, firm against his shoulders. This time, they shock him softly.

“Solas, wake up,” a concerned voice urged.

Lavellan was sitting beside him on the ground, her furrowed expression softening as she looked at him.

“Sorry for waking you. You were talking and twisting and –”

“Thank you,” he interrupted, still slightly winded from the dream.

She hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He didn’t respond and she sighed.

“My Keeper always said that it was bad to go to bed without making up. It leaves things unresolved and pestering. I think I agree with her.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going to apologize!”

“Then I don’t see how this could be resolved.”

“Solas, I know you are allergic to halla or something, but don’t take it out on me, okay?” she snapped, only to immediately backtrack.

“Fenedhis, sorry. I-I know you’ve been treated badly by my people. You probably have all sorts of terrible experiences and that pains me. If you wish to talk about them with someone, I’ll listen. Without arguing. Without picking sides. But I need you to stop slighting me, my family and my clan like that. You do not know all dalish.”

He begrudgingly admitted that she was correct.

“Fair enough. I overstepped.”

“It hurts, you know. To hear you speak like that. I care about your opinions.”

Guilt filled him, by far drowning out his pride. He had wounded her. For the sake of some petty quarrel.

“Ir abelas. I am not… accustomed to this.”

“This?”

“Conversing with people outside of the Fade.”

Her smile was warm. All previous disagreement forgotten. She stood and offered him her hand. He took it and she pulled him up.

“Come, falon. It’s no use laying out in the cold when we have a perfectly passable tent,” she said, and then grinned and added “Not even us dalish think that.”

He gathered his things at placed them in the unclaimed tent, while she snuck into Cassandra’s tent to fetch her own bedroll.

The tension in his shoulders eased as she settled next to him. The knots in his stomach loosened. He carried enough bitterness in him, he thought. He didn’t need the extra pain of fighting with her.

Just as he started drifting back to sleep she spoke, words mumbled against her pillow.

“You know, you don’t have to worry about bad dreams while I’m here. Being a First, I’ve been trained specifically to keep the Bringer of Nightmares away from my people.”

It was meant as a joke, but the heavy weight in his stomach returned tenfold.

There would be no sleeping for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations from FenxShiral:  
> Uralas'falon: Friend of Nature, nature magic, keeper magic  
> Fenedhis: Common curse  
> Ir abelas: I’m sorry.  
> Falon: Friend


	9. Thinly Veiled Threats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for The Masked Empire.  
> Chapter is skipable if you want to avoid being spoiled. Mostly covers the quest Measuring the Veil.

They were on the very outskirts of the Hinterlands when he felt two things, all at once: the drastic thinning of the Veil and one of his old artifacts. He hurried to Lavellan’s side.

“Herald. Can you feel it? The Veil if thin here. Dangerously so.”

“I can.”

“A rift will probably be opened close by soon. However, I may have a way to prevent it.”

He hurriedly told her of ancient elven artifacts used to manipulate the strength of the Veil. As he was done Lavellan nodded.

“Sound worthwhile. Lead the way.”

She turned around towards the others.

“Small detour guys. There’s some ancient elven stuff to take care off!”

Sera groaned loudly, and Solas lead them off towards the south.

When they approached the entrance to the ruins, fighting could be seen on the steps. A lone elf in keeper robes tried to hold her own against a small group of demons. Or what looked like an elf, at least.

They quickly helped her with the creatures, and Lavellan seemed beyond thrilled to meet one of her kind. She of course had no idea that was not at all what they were dealing with. Some sort of demon wore the skin of what had once been Mihris, a First from Clan Virnehn. Or perhaps she was still there, somewhere inside. Yes, that was it. As soon as the fight ended she surfaced, the demon forced down within her in hiding. It was a powerful thing. Not one he presently cared to fight.

Instead he decided to simply let the thing be.

She knew about the artifact, and claimed to be there for the same reasons they were.

“I know more of magic and the Veil than any shemlen, so I hoped to help,” she explained.

Hah.

“Ma harel, da'len,” he said coldly, and she immediately appeared nervous.

“I – let’s get moving,” she stuttered. “We’ll need focused magical energy to get in.” – she gestured towards him – “Think you can manage it, flat-ear?”

“Watch how you speak to my companions,” Lavellan warned, and Mihris turned quiet.

Solas simply bowed his head towards Mihris, deciding to answer only in fluent elven as a response to the slur.

“Ma nuvenin, da’len.”

Casting was easy here, where the Veil was thin. The vibrations in the air did not repel the Fade as they usually did, and he could feel it close by. It tingled in his fingers and ears, and his breaths felt fuller here. Like if the air filling his lungs was cleaner. Crisper.

As soon as he called on the Fade it came flooding over his fingertips, lifting the stones from the entrance and clearing the way for them. If the Veil had been thin outside the ruins, it was nothing on how it felt actually inside. He sighed happily as he stepped over the threshold, his head clearing. He felt more alive in the waking than he ever had before.

Lavellan seemed equally happy. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

An empty torch was sitting in an alcove, and Solas filled it with memories of fire which casted the room in flickering turquoise.

“Why does this place feel so strange?” the Iron Bull hissed. “I’m groggy. Is it some sort of spell?”

He sounded frightened. Not very surprising for a member of the Qun to be scared by magic.

“The Veil is thinner here,” Solas explained. “Different races react to it differently.”

“Why is that?” Cassandra asked, looking just as worn as the Iron Bull.

“Elven souls are connected to the Fade in ways others’ are not. Or they are supposed to be, anyway. That is why elves and dragons alike can enter uthenera. And why they feel rejuvenated in places where their distance to the Fade lessens.”

“I sure don’t feel great being close to any fadey bullcrap,” Sera objected.

“Hah! Can’t escape having a magicy soul there, Sera,” Bull laughed.

Sera bristled and punched his shoulder.

“Shut up, you!”

They stopped their bickering as they descended the stairs. The artifact sat in the middle of a long room.

“Activate it,” he urged Lavellan.

She extended her marked hand, and it sparked alive as she touched its smooth surface. Green light erupted from within it, and just like that the vibrations in the air changed. It felt like someone pressed a towel over his face, weighing him down and muddling his senses. The heavy feeling he had come to associate with being awake returned.

On his side Bull and Cassandra sighed in relief.

They quickly left Mihris to rummage through the old pots, shifting away dust and cobwebs.

“What was that crap about calling you flat-ear?” Sera asked once they were back outside. “You’re not dalish, despite all the elfyness.”

“Wait, you call the dalish flat-ears?” Lavellan asked.

“Oh come on, don’t act all iffy about it. It was one of you folk who said it this time!”

Solas found it slightly uplifting that however divided the modern elves were, at least they could join in their strange hatred for flatly shaped ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations:  
> Ma harel, da'len: You lie, child.  
> Ma nuvenin, da’len: As you wish, child.
> 
> I was planning on skipping Measuring the Veil, but then I came up with the bad pun that is the chapter name and HAD to include it somewhere.  
> Also, the city-elf codex entries are filled with calling the dalish flat-ears, so apparently it is a shared slur.


	10. Destruction

The day they were to close the Breach all of Haven watched as they marched towards the ruins of the old temple. The mages were with them, as was the Inquisition founders and the Herald.

A thin layer of snow now concealed the remains of the old temple, and the air was crisp and cool. Solas walked behind the founders into the center of the crater. The cold turned his breaths into small puffs of mist that quickly evaporated into the air as they rose towards the emerald above. He pulled his robes tighter. When standing in the large hollow it felt as if the Breach was everywhere. Towering above them ominously, covering the heavens from east to west.

The rebel mages gathered around the valley, on the very edge of the slope.

Lavellan stood pensively in front of them, facing the Breach. Her thoughts were her own. This she had not spoken to him about. But surely she must be scared. While he was convinced that it would work, and that the collected power of the mages would prevent her from dying, nothing was truly certain. Especially not from her perspective. She knew nothing of the strange magic involved here.

Still she stood tall, staring down the hole in the sky. She was going to save the world, even if it meant her death. An admirable courage, one that he was sure would inspire songs and tales that lingered for ages, leaving imprints in waking and dreaming alike. One would not be able to approach Haven in the Fade without hearing of her, or visit the places she had traveled without finding remnants of her there. He briefly wondered as to what types of spirits would recreate her actions in the years to come. Courage, most certainly. And perhaps Purpose, or Learning. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. Wisdom?

And then she turned to him and nodded, a determined look in her eyes.

He rallied the mages, directing their power to Lavellan, who in turn fed it to the tear in the sky above. The air vibrated with magic, the surge of power making the hairs on his arms stand up as it rippled around him. The rift sputtered and spat, shaking the ground around them

And then it sealed, as did the Breach above. Closed on itself with a bright blast, the force of it almost knocking him off his feet. It illuminated the entire valley, and for a moment he could see nothing.

And then his eyes adjusted, and he saw her on the ground.

Cassandra hurried over and pulled her to her feet.

She was alive.

There was a moment of silence before the first cheer split the quiet. And then the whole valley was aloud with merriment and exultant outcries. On the parapets he could see the mages embracing.

***

The whole village had been anxiously awaiting their return. When they stepped through the town gates – and when they saw the Herald unharmed – there was a deafening cacophony of voices congratulating them, thanking them and cheering them on, mixed with applauds, laughs and cries. The people swarmed to her, raising their hands to her. All wanted to touch her. She reached out her hands to them in return, happy and laughing.

The tavern was too small for all of them, so the following party extended outside. Chairs and musical instruments were brought forth, and soon the whole village was aloud with singing and dancing. Solas considered slipping away, but was ushered into the warmth of the tavern by Varric, Blackwall and Dorian. They managed to find a table despite the number of people gathered in the small building.

“Can you believe that?” Dorian asked with amazement.

“I can’t,” Blackwall responded, shaking his head in disbelief.

“If anyone could manage, it’d be Lucky,” Varric said, returning from getting them drinks. He put the cups down in front of them. “I’m telling you, that woman can do anything she puts her mind to.”

“Wouldn’t have joined, if it wasn’t for her,” Blackwall agreed.

“To the Herald!” Varric announced, raising his cup in a toast.

“To the Herald!” the response echoed among them. Solas contented in raising his cup with them, and then taking a small sip. It was a light fereldan ale. Not a personal favourite, but not unpleasant either. He took a larger gulp. Varric seemed pleased.

“So, Chuckles. What are you going to do now? Disappear into the woods again?”

“I have yet to decide. I think I will simply, as they say, see where the road takes me.”

“Sound good,” Blackwall commented, quickly countered by Dorian.

“Sound absolutely terrible! You know, you really ought to go to Tevinter. The libraries of Minrathous have the most amazing texts. I’m sure you’d find a lot to interest you.”

Solas raised an eyebrow.

“Dorian, the Tevinter Imperium is not the safest place for an elf.”

“Oh. Of course, I didn’t…”

Dorian coughed awkwardly and took a sip from his glass.

“So, you think Lucky is gonna head home, now that it’s all done?” Varric quickly diverted.

“I’m certain of it,” Dorian said. “Haven’t you heard the way she speaks of her clan? The girl misses them terribly, that much is clear.”

Hmm. Solas hadn’t realized the two of them had grown so close. Maybe the –

A scream was heard from outside.

A loud, panicked scream, shortly followed by more.

Blackwall was first on his feet, moving through the crowd to get a better view of what was going on. When he reached the doorframe his brows furrowed. He turned to them and gestured for them to join before he disappeared towards the commotion.

Solas pulled on his pack, gripped his staff and held it tightly against his body as he crisscrossed through the crowd. The music had stopped now, and everyone around them were whispering with worried voices.

Once out of the tavern he could see a small gathering of people around the gates. He hurried towards them. Somewhere in the distance a horn was being blown.

Lavellan was already there, speaking animatedly to Cullen.

“Under what banner?”

“None.”

“None?” a stunned Josephine interrupted.

Solas took place beside Cassandra.

“What’s going on?” he asked her.

“A force is approaching. They do not-”

Her words were cut short by a sudden bang from just outside the doors. They all jumped at the sound. Something lit up, shining through under the edge of the wooden gate.

And then another bang.

“I can’t come in unless you open the door,” someone urged from the other side.

The voice was shrill and frightened.

“Open up!” came Lavellan’s immediate order. Cullen followed her as she rushed outside.

It was a young man. Cole, he called himself. Skittish and flappable and not actually a man at all, it appeared. The Fade lingered in him, even here, pulling and pushing in various directions. How odd. It had been ages since Solas saw such a thing.

Behind them, across the mountains, a myriad of lights could be seen traveling towards them. Torches carried by whom? Templars, came Cole’s instant explanation. Templars following the Elder One.

“There!” he said, and pointed towards a raised precipice in the distant.

Solas could feel his body grow cold with dread.

Corypheus.

But… it could not be.

He had assumed him dead in the explosion, yet here he stood. With an army.

And then everyone was moving. Josephine directed agents to begin evacuations to the Chantry. Leliana ordered crows away to do void knows what, and Cullen hurried soldiers off towards the trebuchets. There were not enough soldiers readied though, and Solas soon found himself joining in the defense of the siege equipment.

If he had been filled with horror before, it was nothing against what he felt as the Red Templars came into view. All too familiar. Memories of crazed eyes and auras turned crimson flashed before him.

_Not again, not again, not again._

He closed his eyes for a second, exhaled and then gripped his staff. He had to focus.

Cassandra, Lavellan and he fought the seemingly never ending onslaught of Templars as Blackwall loaded the trebuchet. Their enemies had lyrium jutting out of them, already half turned to stone. Unafraid they threw themselves at him from every direction. Some could still hold swords. Others had sharp, shining blades where their arms had once been.

He shivered as they closed in, careful of always keeping a barrier up, cutting him of from them as much as possible. He was relieved when the trebuchet finally fired, the stone projectile hitting the side of the mountain in front of them, bringing its snow down with it in the crash.

The avalanche rushed down over the approaching army, putting out the little lights and silencing the horns. And then a roar split the sky. Dark wings rose into view. A huge, terrible form flying towards them. It opened its jaws wide, and out tumbled a bolt of fire, devouring one of the trebuchets in an explosion of flying parts and flames.

“Run!” Cassandra roared.

“To the Chantry!”

They hurried through the village, stumbling up the stairs and almost tripping over their own feet. It was a tremendous relief when they were finally inside and could see the doors closed behind them. It was of course a false sense of security. The wooden planks of the front door would not keep such a thing out for long.

A Chantry Sister grabbed his arm.

“Messere, can you heal?”

He nodded in confirmation and let her lead him to a side room. Several wounded villagers were filling the beds. After a quick assessment he judged a human man in the far left bed to be in the worst condition. He had a deep laceration in his shoulder that, unless properly treated, could threaten the entire arm. Luckily, no one seemed to be at the brink of death. Solas pulled out his knife.

“Just to cut away your armour,” he assured the wounded man in front of him, who gave a tense nod. He was shivering, covered in sweat and lips pulled harshly into a tight line. Solas spoke softly to him as he began work, explained what he was doing as he started pouring magic into him, mending muscles, reconnecting veins and creating skin.

The man twitched, cried and grabbed the bedding underneath him with his good arm, and uttered a faint “Thank you,” as Solas finished up. He had just finished healing a second patient when he was called upon. The same Sister as before stuck her head through the door.

“Messere, you are needed by the Herald's side.”

He quickly instructed her on how to care for the remaining patients, and then rushed off to find Lavellan. While he searched he also scanned the crowds for his agents. Had they made it? To his relief he almost ran into Eda.

“Have you seen the others?” he whispered, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

“All unharmed, ser.”

“Make sure to keep it that way.”

***

Lavellan was standing with Dorian and Cassandra by the door.

“Solas,” she said, sounding almost guilty, “we will attempt to redirect attention from the Chantry as the others evacuate. Would you be okay with coming along?”

“Of course.”

“We will join the others as soon as we are finished.”

It was an optimistic statement. One he was certain she didn’t fully believe herself. But then again, the prospect of death had never really stopped her from doing stupid things for the protection of others.

Lavellan signaled two soldiers to open the doors. They were only wedged open slightly, and then quickly closed again behind them as they had stepped outside. They were promptly cut off from the warm flow of voices inside, and instead faced with the village before them. The houses were aflame, smoke was rising from the distant and the demented rumblings of the Red Templars was growing louder and louder, closing in on them.

“Quickly, follow me!”

Lavellan dashed through the smoke, her swift feet skillfully avoiding rubble and debris as she ran to the uttermost trebuchet.

There were no avoiding the Templars here. They rushed at them in every direction as they attempted to turn the rough lever of the huge machine. The wood creaked as they cranked it. Soon it was only him still turning it, the others busy with keeping their enemies at bay. Without letting go of the lever he strung a barrier around the others.

Putting all his weight on the handle he pushed it down, and then rearranged his grip and repeated the motion. Again and again and again. It was a slow process, and around him the fight was growing more and more dangerous. Even Cassandra seemed to be tiring, and Lavellan’s and Dorian’s spell came out more desperate and flailing for every moment that passed. When the lever finally snapped into place, it was not a second too late. Their happiness did not last long, though. The sudden gush of wind created by the swooping wings knocked them all of their feet.

“Run!”

He did. Scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the way as quickly as possible. Dorian and Cassandra were both in front of him, running as if all the exhaustion from the previous fight was forgotten.

When they reached the gates the mountain shock. It wasn’t until then that they realized that Lavellan was not with them. Icey horror crept up his spine, almost paralyzing him with trepidation. Where was she?

“She was right behind us!” Dorian yelled, at the same time that Cassandra started shouting her name.

There was no answer. No trace of her. And then the avalanche came rushing down towards them with a roar. Cassandra grabbed Dorian and him and threw them all up against the wall, and he encapsuled them all in a trembling barrier. The snow hit them hard, in a symphony of chaotic white. And then it all turned black. Black and quiet.

They were buried.

The others were pressed tightly against him, their gasps filling the small space. The snow covered them completely, his barrier the only thing preventing it from crashing down over them. After a while Dorian swore and started melting the ice around them with a well-placed spell. Solas did his best to keep the barrier up while he worked, but he was drained, and in the end parts of their makeshift cave collapsed, forcing them to crawl out from underneath the snow. The ice found its way into his robes, so harsh and cold that it was almost painful.

They emerged wet and absolutely freezing. The landscape around them was a jarring contrast to before. White and smooth, wind blowing flakes into the air. He reached out with his aura, feebly trying to find her. Grasping after just a small strain of her self, hidden somewhere beneath the icy ground.

There was nothing.

“I can’t find her. Can’t feel her,” he told the others, and he could see his own feelings reflect on their beaten faces.

Cassandra was quickest to gather herself.

“We have to get to the others before we lose their tracks.”

***

The trek up the mountains went by practically automatically. He almost didn’t register the reunion with the rest of the survivors, or their panicked plan-making beside him. All his thoughts were of her.

He couldn’t understand how the people around him fretted. Couldn’t they feel how empty the world was now? How little everything suddenly mattered.

“I have never met someone else like me before.”

The boy’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. It was if he had suddenly appeared next to him. Not that Solas had really been paying his surroundings much attention.

He glanced cautiously around them.

“Don’t worry, they won’t hear,” Cole assured him, and then added: “I’m Compassion.”

That at least, was something hopeful in this mess of a moment.

“I’m Pride.”

“But not anymore,” Cole observed. “Changed, but not twisted. Same purpose, but less clear.”

“It does that, time in a body. How long have you had yours?”

“Only for a while. Will I change too?”

Solas regarded the spirit for a while. He was different from himself. Perhaps it was quite not the same, being granted someone else’s body, instead of being given your own.

“Maybe not, if you do not wish it.”

He then suddenly realized the severity of the situation.   

“I would be thankful if you did not mention this to anyone. At least not before I have had a chance to leave.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” a serious Cole assured him.

They walked in silence for a while before the boy spoke again.

“Will talking about her help?”

He wasn’t sure if it would, but after a moment’s hesitation he decided to try. He told Cole of her wonder at the world, and the courage with which she faced it, of the seemingly effortless way in which she channeled magic, of her annoying habit of whistling while she walked and the colour of her eyes.

He told him that they had been friends, and what a rare thing that had been for him.

And he found that it didn’t help at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I'm 100% on the "Solas used to be a spirit of Pride"-headcanon train. Will go into a lot more detail later on.


	11. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations:  
> Lethallin: Blood kin.  
> Shemlen: Quick children, demeaning term used for humans by the dalish.  
> Tarasyl'an Te'las: Skyhold, lit. the place where the sky was held back

They had set up a temporary campsite in the mountains, two days’ travel from Haven. Few resources had been brought with them, so hunting parties had been sent out immediately, looking for game, and what little food they had had been rationed, sorted and packaged carefully. A sick tent had been put up to care for the wounded, but Adan and himself were still the closest things they had to a proper healer, so the two of them had spent the first day busy with patients. And the Sisters did what they could – sewed up wounds, cleaned cuts and changed bandages.

They scrambled on, but for all intents and purposes, it seemed likely that the Inquisition was over – at least as an important player in Thedas’ future.

The only upside to the whole situation was that his agents were all still alive. If the organization actually managed to reestablish itself after this, then he would need eyes and ears inside of it after he had left. Because he planned to leave. At first opportunity. There was little keeping him here, now.  

He wasn’t the only one with a gloomy outlook on the future of the Inquisition, but he seemed to be the only one who had accepted the defeat they had faced. Cullen, Josephine, Leliana and Cassandra were all fighting furiously, trying to determine the next course of action. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Not only was the Inquisition a lot less promising, now that she wasn’t in it anymore, but so was the entire world. For the two days that passed, his thoughts were an absolute mess, constantly fluctuating between apathy and agony. One moment he would feel a painful loss at her death, at not being able to talk with her, or hear her laugh. The next moment he would feel nothing but the constant, degradative pull of entropy, slowly chipping away at his spirit, leaving behind only a tired shell. Only one thing, one undisputable fact, remained relentlessly clear and inescapable: he would never ever see her again.

Or so he thought.

He was sitting round a campfire with Cassandra and the advisors in the end of the second day, eating soup and listening to them bicker, when he felt it.

Her aura, faint and flickering, but so unmistakably hers. Far away but slowly coming closer. He dropped his plate.

“She is alive.”

The shock hit him, as he said it. The voice didn’t sound like his own. His body didn’t feel like his. The others looked at him in confusion.

“What? Who?”

“Lavellan. I can feel her.”

There was another short moment of confusion before hell broke loose. Where? How? The questions assaulted him from every direction. He responded best he could, pointing them towards the mountain path from which they had arrived. Horses were saddled and mounted and then they were off, disappearing in a whirl of snow.

***

She was barely alive when they carried her into the camp. A small, unmoving body in Cullen’s arms. Solas followed close behind as they took her to a tent. Leliana and Cullen placed her on a bedroll and began removing her armour.

When they were done Solas was at her side immediately, kneeling next to her on the cold canvas floor of the tent.

Magic rushed out of him and into her, thoroughly searching her for injuries. There were a lot of them. She was badly chilled, close to hypothermia and with a chance of frostbite, her ankle was sprained, her left wrist was broken, bleeding and badly bruised and the corresponding shoulder dislocated.

Worst of all was her face, completely devoid of colour or movement.

Not good, not good, not good.

He could not lose her again. Not now. Not when he had just gotten her back.

He turned to the others.

“I need potions. Elfroot, embruim and lyrium. Bandages, a washbasin and a splint, as well as furs and blankets.”

Leliana nodded – “Of course,” - and they all left. He began by placing a faint fire mine close by, slowly heating the space around her, but careful not to expose her to too much heat too quickly. Then he focused on the thing that was both easiest to heal, but also likely to worsen the fastest; the frostbite. Just as he finished up, some colour finally returning to her skin, an agent rushed into the tent with the materials he had requested.

Healing potions were poured into her mouth, lyrium into his own, and then the real work began.

He was completely focused on the spells we wove into her skin, and did not even look up at the sudden outburst of voices outside the tent.

"Ser, you can not go in there!"

"Get out of my way!"

"Ser, I can't le-"

"Don't test me!"

The tent flap was pushed aside as Dorian entered. Solas glanced up briefly, and found the man more disheveled than he had ever seen him. Not that it said much, up to this point the man had always been immaculate. Now however his hair was tussled, his robes wrinkly and his eyes trimmed with red.

Solas returned his attention to the woman before him. Behind him Dorian exhaled slowly. He stood there for a while, stuck and staring at them, before he marched around the bedroll and sat down across from Solas, on her other side.

He remained quiet while Solas worked.

It took two hours of ceaseless healing before Solas was confident she would make it. He finished up, cleaned and bandaged her wound and then sat back, finally breathing out and letting go of the tension he had been carrying.

She was going to make it.

She was alive, and she was going to make it.

For a while, he simply looked at her, marveling at the fact that she was next to him; something he had thought was never to happen again. And then he raised a hand to her face, wiping away some stray strands of hair from her face, and allowing his fingertips to brush against the short part of her undercut, cropped so closely to her scalp that her skin shone through.

"Will she be alright?" Dorian asked.

"Yes," he replied, his voice hoarse and tired.

Dorian offered him a skin of water, and he accepted thankfully, drinking deep.

"You know, I never learned healing magic. Not flashy enough, I suppose," Dorian admitted dryly.

"I thought so too, at your age. As do most people."

They spent a moment of silence before Dorian left. He returned with both their bedrolls, placing one on either side of her.

Solas slept more soundly than he had since Haven, lulled to sleep by the now strangely familiar sound of her breathing.  

The last two days' confusing mix of emotions melted away, leaving way for a profound happiness.

***

He was not the only one happy for her return. There was a vigil outside of her tent, where her reappearance was eagerly awaited. As soon as she stumbled out into the cold mountain air they bowed down to her. “Your worship” and “Herald” were whispered with reverence, and then they sang. Voices in harmony to well-known words.

 _A dawn will come_.

The line resonated through the entire camp, rising to the sky and filling the cold hollow with melody.

But the dawn they foretold was already here. In this very moment, it was clearer than ever before. She was the beginning of something new. Something imposing. Shaping the lives of these people, the nature of this organization and the future of Thedas.

The song fell silent, but he knew that it continued in the Fade. These words would echoes through it for a long time. This moment encapsulated and remembered. How would she look, in the memories of those who kneeled before her? Shining, victorious or striking? Surely it would be a fearsome sight.

In the waking she looked touched. Tears trailed across her cheeks as she pulled the humans from their knees, embracing them and beaming.

He needed her, he realized. She was becoming important. Influential. For his plans, he needed to enlist her. At least partially. Sourly, he thought back to when she had done the same, in those early days of the Inquisition. When she had charmed the humans, observing their needs and then filling them. He now had to do it to her, and he knew exactly what she needed from him. What she craved more than anything. Kinship.

He waited while she mingled with the masses. When hands had been held, sentiments shared and tears dried he approached her.

“A word?” he asked, and when she nodded he led her out of the camp, to a rim overlooking the valley below.

The snow was thinner here, with small seedlings sprouting out from underneath the sheet of white. He carefully stepped around them. She followed just as cautiously. When he was content with the distance between them and the campsite he turned towards her, and sat fire to the air with fake flames, providing no warmth, but framing her face in flickering hues of blues and greens

He held his arms firmly behind his back, shoulders squared and back straight. Trying to exude confidence, when in reality he was anything but. He needed to share parts of his secrets, parts of his mistakes and failings. And so much now depended on her reaction, on her trust in him.

“The humans have not raised on of our people so high for ages beyond counting,” he told her. And she reacted exactly like he had predicted – her face lighting up at the words “our people”. He felt shame when he saw the undiluted joy in her eyes, and then quickly stomped down on his treacherous emotions. This needed to be done.

“Her faith is hard won, lethallin...” The small half step she took towards him at the sound of the endearment did not pass him by. He had her now. That one word making all the difference. “...and worthy of pride… save one detail. The threat Corypehus wields? The orb he carried? It’s ours.”

Her eyes widened as he told her what he knew of the foci. Or at least the parts that the wandering hedge mage he played ought to know.

He bound her to him with his words, sneaking acceptance and affinity in as many times as he could. Our people, our gods, our pantheon, our ruins. She nodded in agreement to everything he said as if entranced. They needed to figure out how it could be that Corypheus lived. They needed to defeat him, reclaim the orb and study it. And they needed to prepare for the reactions of the humans, once they learned the origins of this new threat against them.

“Even if we find a way to defeat him, eventually they will find a way to blame elves,” she stated, both anger and despondency in her voice. “You know, Josephine thought my clan would be happy about the title the shemlens placed on me.” She huffed. “If there is anything my clan has taught me, it is the importance of not meddling with matters of human faith. Those who tries usually ends up with clipped ears.”

“I suspect that you are correct. To avoid such a fate, we must be seen as beyond suspicion. Be seen as valued allies.”

“But how?”

“Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs space to grow. The Fade has shown me such a space. An abandoned fortress to the north, waiting for a force to hold it. Lead them there, guide them through the mountains. There, the Inquisition can build. Grow.”

***

She did just that. During the following days she scouted ahead between the crisscross of alps, the survivors trailing behind her up the pass. It was morning when they finally arrived, the stronghold’s towers appearing in the distance.

Tarasyl'an Te'las.

It had changed since he had seen it raised. Been torn down and built again, but the magic in the ground – in the stones – was the same. As was some of the layout, he found as they entered the castle. A rockery and a library was built around the cylindrical room to the side of the main hall, curling round the empty space he had once carved out. The humans had built around the center, no doubt unconsciously avoiding the spot where the Veil was thinnest. A strange kind of nostalgia settled over him as he claimed the atrium at the bottom of the large rotunda. One of the few places in this strange world that felt like his.


	12. The Place that Holds the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations taken from FenxShiral:  
> Savhalla: Hello.  
> Th'ea?: How is it going? How are you doing?  
> Son, serannas. Na?: Well, thanks. You?  
> Sourvun: Cider.  
> Ma nuvenin: As you wish.  
> Lethallin: Clan mate, kin blood.
> 
> Some major spoilers for The Masked Empire towards the end.

Having her lead the humans to Skyhold did exactly what he had hoped it would, and more. Not only was she now a trusted ally – she was their Inquisitor. Their leader. She was instantly thrust into duty and decision making when it came to reconstructions of the castle. She prioritized a place for healing, as well as housing for the people. Rubble was cleared, walls reassembled and holes filled in. Materials were sent for, as well as some more experienced builders for handling the construction of the mage– and watchtowers.

Solas tried to stay out of the way as much as possible. He would not be of great help during the renovations, and it was no use exploring the castle until the structure had been secured and debris cleared away.

Instead, he opted to get to know the spirit of Compassion better. Cole had an unusual set of abilities considering they were in the waking. He blinked in and out of place, being only where he was needed and hearing clearly when and where that was. And most of the people he spoke to did not seem to remember him afterwards.

“Do you make them forget on purpose?” Solas asked him one evening, after finding him sitting on the battlements, legs dangling over the edge.

“Yes. Seeing me makes them scared, so I make them forget,” he responded without looking up, eyes instead drifting off into the distance.

“Ah. But not everyone?”

“No. Some remembers. I stick more, there.”

Solas sat down beside him. Cole’s attention wandered constantly, and while having a firm grip on certain concepts, others baffled him. Having a conversation with him was difficult, but Solas was nothing if not patient and well-versed in speaking with spirits. After some coaxing he had been told the entire, horrible tale of how Corypheus had gained the Templars.

Only a self-important megalomaniac such as Corypheus would meddle with red lyrium and blight magic in an attempt to grab power. Solas knew from experience that such things never worked out. The blight corrupted everything it touched, and it could not be controlled.

“Sick blood in black veins. It comes from beneath. Burning will not help, but he won’t listen,” Cole said, and dread crept up along Solas’ spine.

“Cole, what do you hear when you listen to me?”

“You stole them from themselves, and now they have nothing. Dying. Dirty. Sick. And it is all your fault. But it is not. Solas, you did not know.”  

Solas clenched his jaw shut, suddenly dizzy. This was bad. He did not want to kill this spirit.

“You don’t have to. I will not tell. It would just mean more hurt.”

He studied Cole’s face for a long time before determining him trustworthy.

“What do you hear when you listen to the others?” he asked.

“They all hurt. Cullen reaches for more. It drowns out the rest when it is. Dorian drinks, but it doesn’t help. The Iron Bull drinks and it _does_ help, but then it moves back towards the bad. Blackwall is like you. Sometimes he thinks it is easier to be angry at the world for making him do something, than to be angry with himself for doing it. But he doesn’t pick the easy route, either.”

“I can’t hear her clearly,” he then added, as a response to the question left unspoken in Solas’ mind. “The anchor is too bright. Like staring into the sun. But sometimes I can see shapes against it, silhouettes casting shadows. She feels trapped. There is no room for _her_ in her shape. Ellana can’t be contained; not in First. Herald. Inquisitor. It doesn’t fit. Spills over the edges.”

That, at least, he could sympathize with. The more names he’d been given, the less he had felt like himself. And the more power he had received, the more constrained his life had appeared.

The sun was setting in front of them, bathing the heavens in orange and pink. Solas sat serenely and watched as it sunk, with thoughts of another world, lit long ago by the same sky. The sun had vanished completely in the horizon, and its last lingering streaks of yellow had disappeared, before he noticed that Cole was no longer by his side.

***

When the bulk of the restorations were finished he made sure to get a desk down to the atrium. Other furniture was brought in as well. Probably the work of Josephine. He found the space ideal. It was in the heart of the organization, so he would hopefully always be up to date on the on goings of the staff. The closeness to the Fade made his head clear and his body feel rejuvenated. And it was familiar – such a rare thing for him, now.

The other Inquisition members also found their places in the castle. The Iron Bull and Sera could often be seen in the tavern, Blackwall hung around by the stables and Vivienne claimed a balcony overlooking the great hall. Varric settled on a table just outside Solas’ own workspace, and Varric saw this as an excellent opportunity for conversation and socializing.

“Hey Chuckles, I got you dinner!” he called out from the doorway, just as Solas was about to head out for a meal. Instead, he now wandered over to the dwarf and sat down at his table. Papers and ink had been hastily brushed aside to make way for two trays of fereldan stew, complete with bread, cheese and a jug of mead each.

Solas saw this as an excellent opportunity to learn more of the dwarven empires of old, as well as their remaining culture. It was a severe gap in his knowledge. While in uthenera he had witnessed memories reflected by spirits in the Fade, traces of old magic lingering in forgotten places and interacted with dreamers. But the dwarves did not dream, and they had no magic – at least not the kind he was used to, the kind that connected you to the Fade. So of them, he knew nothing. Their lands had fallen, risen, and then fallen again without the Dread Wolf as witness. As far as blind spots went, it was a significant one, when the thaigs reached across the world and the lyrium was gathered by them under the earth.

He asked Varric about the lyrium trade. About the history of Orzammar, and of efforts to rebuild. Varric, however, was not the most forthcoming when came to answering said questions.

“What is it with you, Chuckles? Why do you care so much about the dwarves?”

 **“** Once, in the Fade, I saw the memory of a man who lived alone on an island. Most of his tribe had fallen to beasts or disease. His wife had died in childbirth. He was the only one left. He could have struck out on his own to find a new land, new people. But he stayed. He spent every day catching fish in a little boat, every night drinking fermented fruit juice and watching the stars.”

“I can think of worse lives.”

He clearly did not get his point.

“How can you be happy surrendering, knowing it will all end with you? How can you not fight?” Solas elaborated.

“I suppose it depends on the quality of the fermented fruit juice,” Varris said dismissively.

Solas’ eyes narrowed, and his brow was drawn.

“So it seems.”

Unbidden, faces and voices long gone surfaced in his mind. To just stop, give up and surrender your heritage was not an option. Not for him. Not when he knew what would be forgotten. _Who_ would be forgotten. And his people deserved better than that. They existed now only within him, and would wither the moment he let go of them. And in a world where everything was constantly withering, that could not be allowed.

He was not left to his brooding for long. Josephine interrupted them. Her heels clacked against the stone floor as she approached and the papers of her writing board rustled as she skimmed through them, hastily turning the pages.

“Ah, Solas. Excellent. I was just about to look for you.”

She briefly looked around to make sure no one was close by.

“As you may know, the Inquisitor will be attending the ball at the Winter Palace. I think your presence would be most beneficial. If you accept, I will have a formal attire made for the occasion.”

“I do not object, though I must confess that I see little that would be advantageous about the presence of an elven apostate.”

“We want to show that the Inquisition is for everyone, that the Inquisitor has stressed repeatedly. Credibility will already be provided by the attendance of Leliana, Vivienne and myself. We are all known faces at the court. And, well…. The benefits have more to do with the effects I believe you will have on our own party, and not on that of the court.”

“Ah. And what effects would that be, exactly?”

“The Inquisitor is…well, let’s say, displeased about our current strategy for the evening. I think she would have preferred a different approach, and I hope your presence will sooth her. Or at least make her feel less out of place, so to say.”

“In that case, I would be happy to oblige.”

“Thank you, Solas. That is a relief.”

“So, no ball invitations for me, then?” Varric grinned.

“Oh. I-I am afraid not, but I am sure it could be arranged.”

“Don’t worry, Ruffles. I’m only messing with you. I can’t think of anything finer than taking a breather when you all run off to the middle of Orlais.”

“How fortunate,” Josephine smiled, and after bidding them goodbye and scribbling something on her paper, she was off.       

***

They have been in Skyhold for a two weeks when Lavellan was scheduled to travel again. As the Inquisitor, she had even more to do than before, and was to secure mounts from Master Dennet and then locate some missing soldiers in the Fallow Mire. And of course to close all the rifts she found on the way. Sera, Cassandra and Blackwall were to go with her.

She sought him out the day before she left. He was at his desk, bent over a strange text found in the occult library hidden next to the servant’s quarters.

“Savhalla Solas, th'ea?”

Her melodic voice bounced across the empty walls. His heart sang at hearing elven and he wished, not for the first time, that she could speak it properly, and not just in the broken fragments she knew now.

“Son, serannas. Na?” he responded, marking the page he was one and closing the book.

“Ugh. Fine, I guess. But who knew it would be so stressful running an organization?”

She pulled a footstool to his desk and slumped down on in.

“I’m sorry for not finding you sooner. I’ve missed talking to you,” she said, with sheepish smile that Solas might admit to be cute.

“I understand the pressure you are under,” he responded while clearing away the books stacked between them. “Your time is valuable, and I cannot hope to lay claim to it.”

“Oh, but I want you to! If I don’t talk about something else than rations or troop movements or politics I’ll go mad soon.”

“Very well, then what do you wish to discuss?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Anything. Whether nugs are ugly or adorable. Why sourvun is far superior to that shit ale the fereldans drink. Which of our companions we think are going to hook up.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but decided to play along.

“Nugs are decidedly ugly, though I suspect that is part of their charm. And _everything_ is superior to what the fereldans drink, especially if it’s cider.”

“Aha! I knew you had a sweet tooth. And as for our companions?”

“My money is on Josephine and Blackwall.”

“No way! She so has it in for Leliana.”

“Hmph. And what would make you say that?”

“What do you mean, haven’t you heard the way they speak to each other? All giggles and looks, and smiles when she calls her _Josie_.”

“Hmm, perhaps you are onto something, after all.”

She laughed then. A carefree, happy laugh, as the pressure of her new role was temporarily forgotten. In return, she made him laugh with stories of the vigorous training she was put through in preparation for the Winter Palace.

“Josephine mentioned you would be joining us,” she added when their laughter had calmed. “I’ll be glad to have you there with me.”

“She told me that you were… dissatisfied with some of the arrangements.”

Her smile turned into a pout.

“It has been decided that there is no point trying to have me beat the humans at their own Game. They have been playing it their whole lives, and I barely know a count from a baron. So instead of trying to make me fit in, they will just… not. And present me as some sort of exotic wildling, hoping to fascinate the nobles with the sight of an elven savage.”

“Ah.”

It was smart and could very well work, but he could see why she disliked it.

“I doubt they will actually want me to act wild though. I’m probably just required to play charmingly ignorant of their ways, throw in some words of elven and flirt outrageously.” she sighed. “It’s going to be the worst.”

“Surely not a feat for the great Inquisitor?” he joked. She was not amused.

“Ugh. Don’t call me that! Please?”

“As you wish. What would you have me call you?”

“My name?”

He could sympathize with that, at least. He too knew the burden of a title that all but replaces your name and eclipses who you are.

“Ma nuvenin,” he said, and then hastily added: “Ellana.”

“Thank you, Solas.”

She smiled, but still looked slightly beaten.

“It’s just… It doesn’t feel like it fits. It’s all strange. I’m not some Inquisitor, I’m just a normal person.”

He remembered Cole’s words. _She feels trapped. There is no room for her in her shape._

“The greatest triumphs and tragedies this world has known can all be traced to people. And you are proving to be an exceptional person, lethallin. I have no doubt you will navigate the Winter Palace superbly, just as you have any other challenge you have been presented with thus far.”   

And then she was blushing. A delightful sight. And he couldn’t resist trying to make it worse. Old habits died hard. Or not at all, it seemed.  

“Your teachings have, after all, left you very much unconquerable.”

Now it was her time to quirk an eyebrow.

“How so?”

“You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit.”

She was grinning now, blush still visible across her face.

“Indomitable focus?”

“Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated.” He lowered his voice, and leaned it, just slightly. “I am sure the sight would be… fascinating.”

She was the first to look away. He had succeeded in making her blush worse. She coughed awkwardly.

“Ehm. So, have you found anything interesting in the Fade here? Since we arrived, I mean.”

Absurdly pleased with himself, he leaned back and told her some Skyholds history. In the vaguest of ways, and of course while leaving out the parts about it once being _his_ stronghold. She immediately forgot her embarrassment and listened attentively, and peppered him with numerous questions about the previous owners. In the end, though, it was she who broke off their talk.

“I’m sorry Solas, but I have to call it a night. I’m off to the Fallow Mire early tomorrow morning.”

“Of course. Sleep well, and safe travels.”

She rose, but then hesitated slightly, lingering in front of his desk.

“I hope you know that the decision not to bring you was not personal. There is research to be done here, that I think could benefit from your knowledge. Sera, Cassandra and Blackwall however have little to do here.”

“I understand perfectly. And truthfully, I will not mourn missing the Fallow Mire,” he smiled reassuringly.

“I will miss you, though.” she said, and suddenly he was the one blushing.

“And I you,” he managed.

On her way out she flashed him a small smile, almost too pure for his old heart to handle.

The following night that same smile would not leave his thoughts – to keep her spirit unalloyed and unweighted by the role of leadership suddenly a huge concern of his. And he wanted to be the one to ease her burden, just as he wished someone had done for him. What had he needed? What had he considered the most trying? The answer came to him, clear as day; being misremembered. Having the propaganda spread by the Evanuris live on, while the truth of his actions and intentions did not. Waking up to elves using his names for curses and being chased of from the people that should have been his, due to misinformation and lies. That would not happen to her. He would not let time twist her actions and her person into an unrecognizable form. Pictures of her deeds rose in his head, taking shape in the canvas of his mind. Yes. Skyhold would persist, as it always did, and the stones should not just be perfused with magic, but also with illustrations of her legacy. He would have to see to if first thing in the morning.

***

When he approached Josephine with the subject of his planned fresco, she was beyond herself with excitement.

“How lovely! I did not know you to be an artist, Solas. Having art around will be marvelous! Oh, and we could show it to visiting diplomats. Just imagine, a telling of the Inquisitors braveries,” she sighed happily.

He nodded in agreement.

“Yes. Any proper keep should have murals. It would not do for us to go without.”

“This is exactly what I have been trying to tell Cullen! I knew you to be agreeable!”

“Although apt with a sword, I doubt our Commander is the right person to approach with questions about the finer arts.”

“Yes, I suspect you are correct.” She lowered her voice and leaned in closer. “He declines to even take questions of image and reputation seriously. Completely refused to discuss a bard discrediting the Inquisitor, even though such a thing is of uttermost importance to deter.”

“In that case, the Inquisition is even luckier to have you then I originally thought. Which is no small amount, I might add.”

“Oh. You give me far too much credit, Solas.”

“I doubt anyone could.”    

She suddenly made herself busy, digging in a drawer of her desk for something. And then pulling out an empty sheet of paper and presenting him with it, as well as a quill.

“I am afraid that I know little about making frescos. Why don’t you write down anything you might need, and I will see to it.”

He did just that, listing the various pigments he required, as well as the materials for the plaster.

“Did you know that my sister is studying to become an artist?” Josephine asked as he wrote.

“I did not.”

“I doubt she will even finish the first year of the program, though. Yvette… well, she has a tendency to waver in her studies.”

“Schooling is not a must for accomplishment, though.”

“No, but commitment usually is.”

"That… is true.”

He handed her the now filled list of supplies.

“Before you leave…” She paused, searching for words, before continuing. “I was wondering; have you been treated fairly here? Most of our members are not, well… used to working with elves.”

He mulled it over for a while. Except for a few whispered slurs, probably not meant for him to hear, the only unkindness he had faced had been silence and distance. And probably more on account of him being an apostate than being an elf. He told Josephine as much and she seemed slightly relieved to hear it.

“I wish that was the case with all the elves that have joined.”

“Have others fared ill?”

His agents had told him nothing of that sort, except for minor run-ins with soldiers.

“Not so much in the way of direct confrontations, but there are plenty of rumors circulating about the Inquisitor. Not as much now as in the beginning, but they prove to be insistent.”

“Rumors of what kind?”

“The kind that is usually told of the dalish,” Josephine rolled her eyes. “That she is a blood mage who perform ritual orgies and sacrifices human children to her gods. As well as the more common tales of young, dalish women.”

Solas knew as to what she was referring. Exotified, erotic stories of wild elves filled with untamed lust. Stories both distasteful and preposterous.

“All the more reason that she is remembered correctly,” he stated, nodding towards the list of materials on the desk between them.

“Certainly,” Josephine agreed.

***

He spent the remainder of the day planning the paintings. He sketched out numerous motifs in his notebook, which was soon filled with images of mountains, flames, swords and the eye of the Inquisition. For Redcliffe he made two castles, one in red and black, one in white and green. He was so enraptured with his work that he did not notice when Dorian ascended from the library above to stand awkwardly by his desk.

He cleared his throat and Solas was startled by the sudden sound.

“Dorian. What can I do for you?”

Dorian ignored his questions, instead asking: “Solas, have I offended you?”

“If you have, why would it concern you?”

“Because we're here working together for a common cause, and because I respect your abilities.”

“My abilities as a mage, yes,” Solas scoffed.

Dorian looked decidedly uncomfortable now, but continued nevertheless.

“Well, I... realize there's more to you than that.”

“The differences between us are not technicalities to be discarded, Dorian,” Solas withheld, firmly. He would remain quiet as the man spoke positively of enslaving his people and stealing their last remaining scraps of knowledge.

“I... I know, and I am sorry Solas. I was hoping we might find common ground, that's all.”

He seemed genuinely regretful of how things had turned out between them, even though Solas doubted he was actually apologizing for the right things. That he had apologized at all was remarkable though, since Solas recognized a lot of his own stubborn pride in the other man. And he was right, they would be working together. Might as well make the experience as pleasant as possible.

“Perhaps we could,” he offered. “Find common ground, that is. I’ve been trying to look into how Corypheus survived the explosion at the Conclave. Your assistance would be welcome.”

“Ah, a vexing question, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to answer it myself. Even requisitioned some books if think might provide a solution. Perhaps we could look into it together when they arrive?”

“Certainly.”

Dorian looked like someone had just saved him from battling a horde of darkspawn. For being an arrogant fool with little to know impulse control, he seemed remarkably bad with outright confrontations. Or perhaps he, like Solas, was attempting to change his well-ingrained ways.

He nodded, said his farewells and then retreated back up the stairs.

***

Skyhold was marvelous in the Fade. The ambient magic in combination with the base protection against demons had made it an excellent place for wisps, who drifed through the castle, filling it with soft, fluttering light. When he stepped into the dreamscape some of them flocked to him, dancing around his aura and buzzing against his head and hands. He greeted them happily, and fed them some of his mana before he strode of. Finding an isolated place, and then securing it from intruders, he began outlining glyphs on the floor. He didn't have to use his hands, not here, and instead simply pictured the illuminated lines in his mind till they appeared before him. After a moment the glyph began to glow, and he masked his appearance and stepped into it, as the wolf that had once leveled cities.

His agent was waiting for him, trembling with fear and regret. He had failed in getting the passcodes from Briala, and though it broke his heart to do so, Solas killed him. Even in the still weakened state he was in, the act was easy in the Fade. A simple matter of redirecting energy. The man’s last words were of the strengths of modern elves, and praise for Briala. Mid-sentence he was silenced, and their space in the Fade emptied. Solas was left standing in the vast landscape of shifting shapes, only his sorrow to accompany him.

The agent’s death was a regretful necessity. As for the failed plans, Solas would have to see to them himself. To manually override the magic of the eluvians. Luckily, he would be traveling to one in short time. The Winter Ball was approaching, and he would be in attendance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Unfortunately, I won’t be able to write a lot during the holidays. I have two jobs and a bachelor’s degree going on, so truthfully it is a wonder that I find the time to write ever. But I promise to be back with regular updates as soon as possible. I have like a thousand chapters planned and outlined, so hopefully I’ll make up for the oncoming dry period with loads of stuff later. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!  
> And also, I'm going to rewrite the beginning of chapter 6 in a day or two, I didn't really get the tone right for Solas, and it's been bugging me a bit, so keep a look out for that if you want something more to read! :)


	13. Seeping Into Stone

With Lavellan now absent, most of Solas’ days were spent in the company of Dorian, trying to figure out how Corypheus had survived the blast that had leveled a mountain. Dorian had gathered all sorts of books in a nook of the library, and there they would sit for hours pouring over tome after tome. Solas found the library rather lacking, and filled several requisitions himself. Which unfortunately required him to interact with the tranquil that handled the requests. Her callous voice and empty stare always irked him beyond reason, sending shivers down his spine.

Dorian seemed to share his distaste for her presence. His eyes would repeatedly stray her way when she was close by, despite his apparent attempts of ignoring her.

The texts provided no certain answers, even though there were several accounts of prolonged life, gained immortality and raised resistance to physical threats. One book told of old artifacts charged with power which could grant endurance to whomever managed to unlock it. Others wrote of spirits that could grant blessings of protection and longevity to those deemed worthy. And possessed beings could of course survive things others could not. Or, more significantly, their death was usually not as big a consequence, as spirits had no trouble possessing corpses.

Dorian also told him what he knew of Xenon the Antiquarian, the owner of the Black Emporium, who had secured eternal life with the help of a witch, and lived notwithstanding the decay of almost all of his corporeal body. Solas, in turn, shared the story Wisdom had told him. The one of a dalish keeper who had reached immortality through the use of blood magic and ancient curses. If any of this could help them with Corypheus though remained to be seen. He, at least, did not appear either undead or possessed, which eliminated some possibilities from their steadily growing list of options.

“I’m surprised more people don’t try to do this. Prolong their lives and such,” Dorian remarked once as they added two new options to their notes.

“We are currently up to fourteen pages of attempts – successful attempts, I might add – and you think there are not enough efforts being made?” Solas responded.

“That is exactly why it is surprising! If it works this well, this often, why doesn’t everyone try it? Some enhanced stamina here, some prolonged life there. Sound like a common enough objective, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps the lack of access to education, as well as the general persecution of mages can be to blame. Although I suspect few would be for using blood magic, curses or necromancy to obtain their goal. Even among educated mages.”

“Or most of the successful attempts are just not known to us. The smartest way to actually live through your extended lifespan is probably not to flaunt it too much.”

“I suspect you are correct,” Solas replied, pushing aside the irony of those words being spoken to him, an undying, ancient elf masquerading as a mortal.

***

After only two weeks the materials and tools for his frescoes arrived. He began the tiring process of mixing and applying the first layer of mortar, since it would then need a couple of days to dry on the wall. He planned his motif carefully, creating a detailed outline. Lavellan’s story as Herald and Inquisitor started at the Conclave, as would the mural, he decided. A blast of orange would obliterate the temple resting between the mountain tops, and tearing the sky in two. After a moment’s hesitation he added some details in the top, unable to resist the urge to hint at the actual truth behind the events that sat this whole mess into flux.

Ones he was satisfied with the sketch, and as soon as the mortar had dried, he duplicated it onto the surface of the wall with a small piece of charcoal.

Curious faces observed him as they passed on their way to and from the great hall. Some would stop for short periods of time as he sketched out the preliminary lines. Their interest only grew once he put the layer of limestone plaster up and started pigmenting it, applying the paint as quickly he could while still being precise. The pigments were spread out in bowls and jugs, filling up the floor and the surface of the scaffolding he stood on to reach the furthest top of the wall.

As soon as he started the process he knew that he had limited time to finish, and disappeared into his craft, completely oblivious to the faces peering into the room from the door to the hall, or the people leaning over the railings of the balcony above to catch a glimpse of what he was doing.

Hours later, when the candles were long burned down, calling for mage lights to be summoned into the room, he finished the piece. His fingers trembled and his arms ached as he stepped down from the ladder and stored away the materials. He ended up slumping down into the chair by his desk for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, before summoning the energy to walk up the many stairs to his quarters.

The process had reminded him of the last time he had painted something, countless of ages ago in a world now fallen, surrounded by people now dead. Which in turn had reminded him of how completely alone he was here, even in the heart of his old fortress. As if sensing his distress, Wisdom came for him in his dreams, accompanied by Learning and Hope.

In their company he reminisced about all the things he had held dear, and in turn they shared the things they treasured. Keeping the melancholy at bay while speaking of Elvhenan was impossible though, and it was almost inevitable that Sorrow would eventually join them. Its attendance was not unwanted though. Sorrow had accompanied him on many of his journeys. A familiar presence, and not dangerous lest it took the form of Despair.

When approaching the subject of his torn feelings in regards to the populace of this world, the spirits all turned towards him, carefully studying the crashing emotions within him, which he in turn did his best to dampen. When certain that his distress was not sufficient to distress any of them he allowed them to approach.

Learning’s many, many branching arms reached for him and pulled him closer, to better discover what was going on inside his head, while Hope flew around them, it’s clear yellow light slowly pulsating as it flowed back and forth.

Sorrow simply sat next to him, it’s hazy, dissolving edges almost passing into him, like if he had stepped into a purple mist. As always, the solemn spirit had a sort of sinking feeling to it, making Solas feel as if he was drawn to it, slowly descending into the darkness at its center.

“You are learning! Gaining new knowledge!” Learning exclaimed happily.

“Knowledge gained is only of importance if used correctly,” Wisdom interjected.

“If they are people they could learn new things too. They could endure,” Hope determined.

“If they are people, it will hurt,” Sorrow simply responded. Its words hung in the air for a while, as the spirits all tried to figure out how to help him, each in their own way.

Sorrow was first, always constant and secure. “I will be with you when it hurts,” it offered, and Solas gratefully accepted.

“You could teach them!” Learning attempted, uncomfortable with the gloomy acceptance shared between Solas and Sorrow.

“Yes, teach them!” Hope agreed, brightening so much that its glow reflected in Wisdom’s glittering eyes.

“I have tried that,” Solas said meekly. “And it hasn’t worked. They will not listen to me.”

“Then what about her?” Wisdom inquired, its eyes piercing his with a firm stare.

“She listens!” said Hope.

“She learns!” said Learning.

“And she will hurt the most,” sighed Sorrow.

***

Rumours of the Inquisitors travels reached Skyhold. And they did not bode well. Apparently the missing soldiers had been taken hostage by an avvar tribe, and Lavellan and her party were going to fight them. On their own. An entire tribe against two warriors, an archer and a mage. Unbidden images of Lavellan, Cassandra, Blackwall and Sera injured, threatened or dead appeared in his mind, drowning out any attempts of either research or artistry. He tried to sketch out the next piece of the fresco, but could not produce anything other than uninspired drivel. The knot in his stomach never went away completely during the following days. He did his chores, read his books and cleansed his aura like if everything was the same, but the gnawing unease did not leave him.

Not until they returned.

No word had been sent ahead. One day they just came riding through the gates, unharmed, on new mounts and in company of the rescued soldiers. It was almost too good to be true. Only moments later he walked into his rotunda and found Lavellan there. She was still in her traveling clothes, standing with her back to him and regarding the first piece of the fresco. On his desk was a glowing shard.

“Lethallin,” he said, and she turned to him with a bright smile that immediately dissipated the last of his anxiousness.

“Lethallin,” she responded.

“I was glad to hear that your trip went well.”

“And I am glad that it is over. Unless you enjoy the charming mixture of moorland, fetidness and undead I strongly advise against ever setting foot in the Mire.

“Noted.”

“Solas…” Her voice turned soft then, and she gestured towards the depiction on the wall. “This is beautiful. Josephine tells me you made it for the Inquisition.”

“For you,” he corrected. “And it is only proper that there should be an account of your actions.”

“An account is all well and good, but this… Solas, this is extraordinary.”

She studied him closely, her awe-filled eyes never leaving his as he responded.

“Befitting you, then. Sadly, most cannot travel the Fade. They won’t be able to see the remnants of your accomplishments or your character preserved there. But your actions deserve to be remembered through time in some fashion, as do you.”

He could not completely discern all the emotions that crossed her face then. He desperately wanted her to understand what he was trying to convey. He wanted her to recognize her own excellence, and wanted her to know that he noticed how she shone. That he saw how her every decision was weighed wisely and made selflessly, how generously she gave of herself to those around her, and how she inspired hope in even the most fallen of souls. He wanted all of this almost desperately, which was why the next words she spoke were so important.

“It is more than anyone has ever done for me, Solas. It is the best gift anyone could have given me. And that it is you who made it means much to me. Thank you.”

He mirrored her smile with a much smaller one of his own. And then he felt himself growing self-conscious under her gaze, and instead directed attention to the shard laying on his desk.

“Shall I presume this is something you came across during your travels?”

She smiled fondly, realizing immediately what he was trying to do. Which of course made his embarrassment all the worse. Could she really discern his weaknesses that easily?

“Ah, yes. The mysterious shards,” she sighed. ”We found a whole bunch of them.”

“Ah. Strange that we did not come by them earlier.”

“Well, you needed a… tool…. to find them. Something the Venatori built.”

He had no problem reading her expression now. Dread crept over her, pulling her shoulders tight and sending shivers across her skin.

She strolled over to the couch and motioned for him to the same. When he joined her, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“The Venatori had built contraptions, magical telescopes, using the skulls of the tranquil from the Circle towers.”

“I had wondered what had become of them when the mages rebelled,” he mumbled. “What a tragic waste.”

“Yeah. Horrid, the whole thing.”

“And they were doing it to find the shards?”

“Mhm. Have you ever seen one before?”

He had. He had seen countless. He fetched the piece and placed the familiar stone in his lap, running his fingers over the smooth surface, but avoiding the skull planted in its middle. It was a key. Used in Elvhenan by the Evanuris to protect hidden temples and stored power from all but their most devout followers. The enhancements were made from the same stone or tree that the temple was carved in, and then bewitched in various ways, depending on the crafter. This one was his. Enchanted with the cranium of those of his people that were first to quicken, and whom had gifted their bodies for the preservation of the shrines.

How strange that it would appear now. And that the Venatori would be looking for it.

“I will look for clues in the books gathered here. See if I can find any information as to its origins. It the Venatori were looking for it, it might prove important.”

She nodded.

“Excellent. I’ll leave it with you.”

She stood, and then spoke again.

“There will be a party at the tavern, celebrating the release of the soldiers. Will you join us?”

“I should probably begin work on the shard.”

“It can wait, lethallin. Join us.”

“It is not-”

“Please, just this once?”

She was grinning now, clearly enjoying needling him.

He sighed.

“Very well. I’ll be there. But only for a short while.”

Her grin grew wider and he wondered, not for the first time, if it was natural for a person to smile as much as she did. Was it a dalish thing? The once he had met previously certainly hadn’t smiled a lot.

“I’ll see you there.”

***

When he walked through the doors the tavern was already bustling with movement and sound. A bard was singing, her voice and the sound of chiming strings filling the room, mingling with the sound of laughter and conversation.

He spotted Lavellan at one of the tables, surrounded by the Iron Bull, Varric, Sera, Dorian and Cole. Cole was sitting next to her, stiff and upright in his chair, and watching the others closely. Dorian's arm was resting against the back of Lavellan’s chair as he leaned back, exuding a giddy confidence. Varric, Sera and the Iron Bull were sitting across from them, the table dividing them filled to the brink with empty and half-empty cups and flasks.

Cole noticed him first and turned his head towards him. Lavellan’s eyes followed his gaze and lit up as they landed on him, still standing by the door.

“Solas! I was beginning to think I’d have to go and fetch you myself,” she called.

He crossed the room and sat down in the chair by the end of the table, placing him between Varric and Cole. He was surprised to see the spirit here. Sensing the confusion, Cole immediately answered him out loud.

“They are teaching me how to party.”

“I see. And what have you learned so far?”

“That you shouldn’t think and that the bottom goes up.”

“As good a start as any.”

“An excellent start. The kid has finished of two of these already!” Varric informed him and passing Solas a flask filled with foul-smelling liquid. The dwarf did not seem to share the aversion to Cole, clearly felt by both Sera and the Iron Bull.

“How about you, Solas?” the Iron Bull asked. “You done a lot of partying in your time?”

Sera choked on a gulp of ale, laughing and coughing as she wiped her now dripping mouth with her shirtsleeve.

“Of course he has!” Dorian exclaimed. “Haven’t you heard what the elves get up to in the woods?”

“Really?” Lavellan huffed amusedly. “Why don’t you enlighten us, Dorian?”

“Oh, I know all about your naked, moonlight dance sessions.”

“Hah! Do we also braid flowers into our hair?”

“Of course!”

“He sure doesn’t,” Sera mumbled with a vague nod in Solas’ direction. The Iron Bull grinned into his glass.

“And is that after or before we sacrifice human children to our gods?” Lavellan asked Dorian.

“Before, I would hope. You’d want to look pretty for that, wouldn’t you?”

Lavellan and he fell into a fit of giggles.

“The children has gathered the flowers. Little fingers tying them into the curls. Even the Keeper is talked into it – blue and white covering dark hair.” Cole’s words stopped Lavellan mid-laugh. Her eyes widened.

As did Seras.

“No way, you _do_ actually put flowers in each other’s hair!” she exclaimed. “I knew it! Ugh! Why’d you have to be so elfy, Shiny?”

Lavellan gave her a sheepish smile. “Oh, come on Sera. You can’t possibly be opposed to flowers. I promise, I’ll make you a flower crown the next time we are on the road. Red and yellow to match the outfit.”

“Preferably not from flowers found in the Fallow Mire,” Varric said, and the others laughed.

“Make me one while you’re at it, Boss. I bet it’d look good on the horns,” the Iron Bull chuckled.

Surprisingly, Solas felt himself relaxing in the other’s presence. They fell into an easy, comfortable banter, lined with laughter and playful jabs. He mostly sat back and listened to them. As the evening progressed the number of empty glasses before them grew. How they got into the question of the Qun Solas did not know. Not the best topic of discussion with a Ben-Hassrath present.

Especially not when said Ben-Hassrath was loud and drunk.

“Come on, Boss,” the Iron Bull bellowed. “It’s not as bad as you make it out to be. We treat elves better than the humans ever have, for example.”

“You do? I’m sorry Bull, but I can’t see how servitude to the Qun is better than servitude to human lords,” she bit back, cheeks flushed with anger and alcohol.

Solas hummed his agreement.

“Worse, even,” he interjected. “At least here a servant may keep their thoughts.”

“Do you really think the servants here are happier than the servants of the Qun? the Iron Bull demanded in disbelief.

“It doesn’t matter if they are happy, what matters is that they are free,” he responded, now just as provoked as Lavellan was.

Sera, who had sometime during the evening swept glasses and mugs to the side to place her head on the table in front of her, was now stirred. She huffed in annoyance. Cole was moving his hands nervously.

“Free to do what?” The Iron Bull said. “Free to starve? Free to become homeless?”

“Yes!” both Lavellan and he snarled.

“And it is not just some strange hypothetical, a soothing possibility,” Lavellan continued. “It is the choice my people has chosen. For hundreds of years we have placed our freedom over our comfort, over having homes, food and medicine. And it is a choice I stand by.”

“Oh, shut it you,” Sera groaned.

Dorian, whose eyes had darted between Lavellan and the Iron Bull, now decided to join in.

“What would it look like?” he asked Bull.

“Huh?”

“It the Qun invaded tomorrow. Got to do whatever they wanted with the Inquisition. What would it look like?” His eyes were narrowed and locked with the qunari’s in challenge.

This, more than anything else that had been said, seemed to halt the Iron Bull. He glanced nervously around the table.

“Come on, let’s hear it,” Dorian urged.

“It’s not really –”

“No, no. Do tell,” Solas interrupted.

“Some would do fine. Cullen, Cassandra. They’d fit right in. You mages though? Probably not so much. And you” – Bull gestured towards Sera and Varric – “you would probably be re-educated. Kept drugged until you broke.”

“And this is the world that you fight for?” Solas huffed. Such thinking was dangerous. Elvhenan had been… different, but eerily similar. Moving above your station, housing dreams of difference, that was considered a threat to the general order of things. To the hierarchy that they had placed people in.

“Argh. Get off. Never thought I’d say this, but Droopy's got a point. That shite sounds scary,” Sera said with a glare towards the Iron Bull.

A thought flashed in his mind. Passed in a flurry of others but stuck. Sera. He would have conscripted her if she had been born in his own time. She would have hated Elvhenan. She would have rebelled with him, always opposed to misuse of power. Always, as she puts it “looking out for the little guy.” Would she in this time, as well?

To his side, Varric spoke, but Solas wasn't paying attention. “Speaking of things that are scary…” he said, and then trailed of into a story. Always trying to change the subject, always eager to lighten the mood.

Sera would not approve of Solas' plans. The more he turned the thought over in his head he became certain of it. Would she ever approve of anyone’s? Or is the haphazard style of the Red Jennys by design? Never a new order, always anarchy. Yes, that is her utopia, and she would never follow him. However much their goals might coincide.

But it was worth looking into. The Red Jennys could prove useful, Sera could prove an important contact.

And it was for the better if she did not join him. His agents do not lead safe lives, and Sera was impossibly young, impossibly full of life.

“Eighteen casualties. The report doesn’t mention their names. But you remember. Trustful faces freed of markings," Cole said, interrupting Varric’s retelling of an attempted assassination in a back alley in Kirkwall.

That was Solas’ cue to leave.

“Is it getting lates” he said as he rose - too quickly, he realized as the room spun slightly.

“Yeah, good of you to join us, Chuckless” Varric said, and Dorian nodded his agreement.

It was not until he was back in his bed that he realized what a good time he had. That he has come to care about these people. Varric, Sera, Lavellan, Cole, Cassandra, Dorian and Josephine, the regard in which he held them took him by surprise. The Inquisition was not a random assembly of people, not anymore. It was a group – a pack. And suddenly, for the first time, he felt as if he was a part of it. As if he belonged.

He exited the bed, scrambled for his sketchbook and began drawing. The motif that had not taken shape with _her_ absent now easily formed on the page. Around the eye of the Inquisition the wolves appeared. Lonely souls given a purpose and now howling in unison, united by the shared cause, by the chaos and by her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't know first thing about making frescos. All I know was in a five minutes long Youtube-video, so there are probably a lot of inaccuracies here.  
> As you've all probably noticed by now, I'm also completely butchering the elven, but gender specific terms are just the worst, and lethallin sounds the prettiest, so I've decided to only use that form of the word :)


	14. To Carve a Place for Ourselves

Later, he would look back on the weeks that followed with fondness. The weeks leading up to the ball at the Winter Palace were pleasant, almost peaceful. The wheels of the organization kept turning, servants still hurried through the rooms and nobles still gossiped in the great hall, but nothing of consequence happened. No darkspawn magister bashed through the doors, no Chantry Brother decried the Herald at the front gates. They were tucked away, hidden in the safety of the mountains. Left to study magical shards and learn the names of orleasian nobles.

When she was not preparing with Leliana, Vivienne or Josephine, Lavellan would often claim the couch in the rotunda. Always with a book in hand. “There is so much I have to learn,” she admitted, tone both stressed and keen. “And I’ve never had access to this many books before!”

Her Keeper had taught her to read, being a First and all, but she was far from skilled at it, and he often observed her drawing her brows together in frustration as she tried to make out a difficult word. Sometimes she gave up. Discarded the book with a beaten sigh and replaced it with another. Not even once did she ask his help, and he thought that he probably had himself to blame for that. She didn’t want him to make a snide remark on the literacy of the dalish, to drag her clan through the mud because of her deficiencies. And he _did_ blame them. He couldn’t help it. When faced with this bright, young elf who wished to learn, who sought knowledge wherever she found it, he couldn’t help but to curse the people that had kept her from it. That would rather keep her on a safe path. Never challenged. Never enlightened.

She learned quickly though and soon she was confident enough to read aloud to him while he painted.

She read him notes she had found in the Fallow Mire. Left by an apostate named Wildis. And she told him, with excitement and wonder, of how the veilfire runes had places images and feelings in her head.

She read the Chant of Light for him. If someone would have told them beforehand that it was to happen, he doubt either of them had believed it. Yet here they were. He had been in the middle of outlining the latest addition to the fresco when she had suddenly laughed, the sound of her giggle bouncing across the quiet room even though she tried to contain her amusement.

He turned his head towards her and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“What are you reading?”

“The Chant of Light.”

“And that is amusing?”

“Yes! Oh Creators, yes! Solas, this is more radical than half of what my Keeper says. Listen to this, just after Shartan freed the Tevinter slaves!”

And then she began chanting.

_“And the People raised the blades of the fallen soldiers to the heavens_

_And rejoiced. And Shartan said to them:_

_‘No longer are we hunted! We shall never again_

_Be prey, waiting to be struck down!_

_Let us take up the blades of our enemies_

_And carve a place for ourselves in this world!’_

_The People heard him, and girded themselves_

_In the armor of the dead_

_And sharpened their blades and arrows_

_And prepared for war.”_

Her voice echoed solemnly against the half-painted walls. It sounded grand and ceremonious. These were the sort of things her voice was meant for – rallies, war cries and triumphant, rebellious speeches.

“That is in the Chant of Light?” he asked, astounded.

“In the unabridged, elven version. Which is, of course, completely banned.”

“Hphm. Maybe Cassandra might actually succeed in converting me after all.”

“Oh Creators, has she tried with you as well?”

Lavellan’s attention was quickly returned to the book in her lap. She reminded Solas of himself when he was young, excitedly trying to consume every book Vir Dirthara had to offer.

In the end of the day he had to pry the tome from her fingers to make sure she got the sleep she needed.

“Wish I didn’t have to sleep,” she whined. “So much to read.”

“Have you considered spirits as a source of knowledge? Then you could learn while you slept.”

“Do you think I’m ready for that? Conversing with spirits?”

They had continued meeting in the Fade. She did not cross over as often as he did, but some nights he still felt her presence there and sought her out. She was now quite capable of unearthing memories. They had, together, seen people move in and out of the fortress. Skyhold being filled with banners, furniture and people, only to be then left unattended as they abandoned the mountain pass.

“I think it is time. The next time I find you, I’ll bring a friend.”

That convinced her. She finally stopped whining and went to bed. As if by sheer willpower alone she appeared in the Fade that night, her aura as bright as always. Here, she most resembled an elf of old, the atmosphere around her shaped by her mood and thoughts. She was flickering and ever changing, and so very, very alive.

He brought Learning. It seemed most fitting, and the others were far away, healing hurts in their own various ways. At first she seemed taken aback by the sight of it. By the many, thin arms branching out from its body like white, barren foliage, mirrored in the system of interlocking roots covering its body, like bleak veins exposed to the daylight. Small, round eyes gleamed like black pearls in the place where a face would have gone, had it had one.

Solas slowed his pace and gave her time to calm herself and the spirit beside him studied him closely and learned to do the same. She was in her room, sitting on the balcony and looking out over the mountains.

“Greetings,” she finally said, after a nervous glance at his face for confirmation that _yes, this was all right._

“Hello!” Learning spoke, its echoing voice multiplying the word several times before it faded to silence.

“Ellana, this is Learning,” he said with a gesture towards the spirit, and then, turning to it, he introduced her. “And Learning, this is Ellana, First of Clan Lavellan and leader of the Inquisition.”

“I don’t know anything of Clan Lavellan. Will you tell me?” it asked her.

“Only if you tell me about yourself,” she responded. “I’ve never met a spirit of Learning before.”

It mulled it over for a moment.

“That is acceptable.”

It was a good thing, he figured, that it had asked about her clan. Few things relaxed her as much as talking about them. Learning was not as interested to hear about her friends and family though, it wanted facts and information. Where did they live? What did they eat? What crafts did they make? What jobs and titles existed within the group?

Solas wrinkled his nose in disgust as she carefully explained how to make stews and mashes out of worms and bugs, and she laughed at his grimace.

“I’ll make it for you sometime, when we are on the road.”

Great.

After a while it was Learning’s turn to share information.

“How did you and Solas meet?” she asked it, and thankfully the spirit knew how to be vague.

“I help him in his travels,” it said. “When he comes to a new place and needs to learn about it, I join him. Solas is a good companion, always finding out new things.”

“Ah, and what has he found out about this place?” she asked while gesturing to Skyhold around them.

“That the old magic has seeped into the stones, that it makes flowers grow even in the mountain air, and that it is most beautiful towards the afternoon, when the sun comes in from over the battlements and makes the snow glitter.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And there is also a hidden library in the basement.”

“There is?”

“I just recently came across it,” Solas quickly interjected. Which was of course not true, it was in fact Eda who had found it, and it had been some time ago.

“We’ll have to check it out some time,” Lavellan simply said.

Learning glanced curiously at them, the dark eyes moving quickly between them as they spoke.

“I am thankful for meeting your friend, falon. I have learned much,” it said, and for some reason the words disconcerted him. What did it see when it looked at her? What else had it learned, except for dalish clan organization and the duties of a First?

“May I also meet your new spirit friend? Compassion.”

“Ah. Regrettably, I do not think it is possible. He does not sleep, and I doubt he would want to return to the Fade if he did.”

“Cole?” Lavellan asked, and he nodded.

Learning said its goodbyes, and with a last glance at them it floated away, undoubtedly drawn by some new piece of information, hidden deep in the fabric of dreams.

“Wow. That was… I don’t know how to describe it.”

He had told himself that this was not something he was nervous about. That her reaction to Learning was not important. That it would have been disappointing, perhaps, if she had found it disagreeable. But nothing more than that. It wouldn’t have been painful, it would not have been a huge loss. But despite his own attempts to convince himself of this, a large part of him relaxed in relief at the sight of the smile that tugged at her lips.

“They are different than people in the waking, but once you get used to their eccentricities they can be quite pleasant,” he said, and she nodded.

“Yeah, I can see how you can be friends with some of them. I couldn’t really, before. I mean, I was okay with it and all, but I couldn’t really see it.”

“Not even after meeting Cole? You seem to be getting along just fine with him.”

“Yes, but you said yourself that he is different.”

“That is true.”

“I think Vivienne is going to corner me,” she confided.

“Why?”

“She doesn’t like having him around. Says he’s a demon.”

“Ah. Figures. There are few who are as open as you are to the possibility of being wrong. Who does not recoil at the sight of something new. It is a rare and precious quality, that which you possess.”

She looked at him and suddenly her entire aura shifted. He could feel the magic around her as it turned warm and started to tingle.

He tentatively brushed his own magic against the edges of hers, curious as to what more was projected in the air about her. She looked away then, and suddenly their surroundings changed. They were in her old cabin, sitting on a bed facing each other. Instruments, herbs and parchments were scattered across the desk, a small candle lit the otherwise dark room. The pictures on the walls are barely visible in its quivering light.

“Why Haven?” he asked her.

“It… It will always be important to me. So much happened here. So much changed.”

Her voice broke, just a little.

“Did you bring us here on purpose?”

“No, I… I just realized that you were never here. In my cabin. And here we are.”

“Not while you were awake.”

“What?”

“I was here after your first attempt at the Breach. I healed you as you slept.”

“Oh, true. I never did thank you for that, did I?”

“You didn’t. But I am certain I could think of some way for you to repay me.”

“Really?” Her voice was playful. “Like what?”

He gestured to the musical instruments, the lute and the small flutes.

“Perhaps you could play me something?”

She hesitated for a brief moment.

“If you tell me a story from your travels.”

“That is acceptable.”

She picked up one of the flutes, blew into it a couple of times as if testing it. And then she started playing.

It was not like anything he had previously heard. Not like anything out of Elvhenan. Instead of drawn out, melancholy notes, this was quick and jumbled. Her fingers danced swiftly over the small, wooden device, creating rapidly shifting ups and downs.

And then he heard the others.

Summoned from her memories and now reflected and replayed within the dream. One by one they joined in. First another flute, working with her to make something slightly more coherent and melodic out of her tunes. Then came the drums, low but obstreperous. He couldn’t name the others instruments. Couldn’t quite place the sounds. Some sort of lute perhaps, and a small harp? After some time he realized that at least one of the sounds – a low thrumming – was in fact a voice.

And then, suddenly, the small cabin in Haven was long gone. He was sitting on the ground, on dry dirt trampled flat by countless feet. A huge fire was alight in a cooking ring, and around it other elves were seated. The ones who weren’t playing something were clapping or humming along to the tune.

Lavellan was sitting next to him, still playing on the small flute. Shining with absolute happiness.

But she was also sitting across from him, the same flute in hand.

This must be her clan.

He couldn’t help but shiver as they started singing. It was hauntingly beautiful, in its own, strange sort of way. Not refined or carefully planned, but beautiful notwithstanding.  

He wished he could hear her sing.

And he must have pictured it, wished it clearly enough for the Fade to pick up on it, because after an almost shy glance towards him she lowered the flute from her mouth and joined in.

How wrong he had been, thinking triumphant speeches was what her voice was meant to do. _This_ was what her voice was meant for.

It made sense, seeing them together like this. Of course dalish songs could not be played alone. Of course an entire clan was needed.

He tore his eyes from her, and instead took in the others around him. The small elves wore little but light clothing, the weather here mild even after nightfall. The loose pants, foot wraps and tunics were all in the colours of the forest – brown, beige and green. Their hair was mostly braided, often with pearls of bone, stone or tree woven into it. The Ellana in the memory, the younger Ellana on the other side of the fire, had flowers in hers.

He smiled. So she had not lied about that, then. They _did_ wear flowers in their hair.

He studied her more closely. She was surprisingly different from the woman he knew, even though there could only be a few years separating them. For starters, she was not yet marked – her face completely bare of both vallaslin and piercings. The sight was strange, almost jarring. At what point had he gotten used to seeing her marked? Had he stopped noticing it, and just started viewing it as something unmistakably tied to her – a natural part of her?

There were other differences as well, smaller ones. The hair on the sides of her head was not yet cropped and her cheeks were rounder which gave her a more childish look.

What if she had never left this life? Had never ventured outside of the relative safety of Clan Lavellan. Would she still look this innocent and untroubled then? Solas had no illusions of the dalish living carefree, bohemian life, as some others who seemed to think, but everything was more _carefree_ than being anchored with a life-consuming magical mark needed to stop the threatening apocalypse.

The song quieted down, then, finishing on a lingering word shared by the many voices.

The memory fades and they are back in the cabin.

“Was that sufficient repayment?” she asks, feigning confidence but with an aura drenched in anxiety. He reaches out for it with his own magic, letting her feel his esteem through it.

“It was much more than that, lethallin. Thank you for sharing it with me.”


	15. Lies They Tell Themselves

Dresses had been sewn, formal dances learned and orlesian pronunciation practiced. Everything was in order for the ball at the Winter Palace. The Inquisitor would attend, in company of Vivienne, Dorian, the advisors and himself. After consulting the matter with Josephine it had been decided that he would be presented as a servant. It was a good strategy for evading attention and minimizing scandal. Josephine agreed with this, but seemed relieved that he had been the one to propose it so that she herself did not have to.

Halamshiral was fitting as a final destination, Lavellan had jested, since you always arrived at the end of the journey.

A clever pun, but only shared with him. Either because only he spoke elven or because only he was trusted with witnessing her struggle against hopelessness. Or perhaps a bit of both. The joke was an attempt to hide the pain she felt at walking the halls of crumpled, elven dreams dressed as a plaything for the humans to gawk at. But no jokes could dull such pains. That he knew all too well. He laughed softly at hers nonetheless, and took her hands when that wasn’t enough.

He should introduce her to Hope. It would raise her spirits. Or was it pride she needed? He wished, not for the first time, that he could feel her like he once would have been able to. To see the various strings pulling at her, tying her to the world around her.

Cole could, and in an attempt to help him he had told him what he could. _Pride burns, not like fire but like hunger. Emptiness where there is room for more. Mamae, why can’t we stay? Because of lies they tell themselves._

***

It was not deemed suitable for the Inquisitor to arrive at the city gates on horseback, so carriages were borrowed from an ally with an estate a couple of hours away. Solas was cramped into a small compartment with Cullen, Dorian and Lavellan. Dorian sprawled out on the cushioned seating, hands behind his head and ankle resting on his leg. Beside him, Cullen did the opposite, sitting stiff and contained and plucking uncomfortably at the tassels surrounding them.

Lavellan was glued to the small window. She sucked in a sharp breath as they passed the now largely empty streets. Houses ones filled with elven families now stood silent on both sides of them as they ventured within the city limits. One street was burned to the ground, leaving only ash behind where there had once been life.

“Can you imagine that it all started with a child throwing a rock?” she said, disbelief and hurt seeping into her tone. “A single rock.”

“It all started thousands of years ago, made worse by countless conflicts and unending cruelty. Those with power almost always abuse it, this is nothing new.”

She left the window and turned to him.

“Have you seen Halamshiral in the Fade? As it was.”

“I have. Our people strive to remember Halamshiral, but it was itself merely a fumbling attempt to recreate a forgotten land. A joined dream of an elven empire, here compromised into a single city. Its roads stretched out far, so that every elf seeking solace and safety would find themselves here.”

Dorian joined Cullen in being uncomfortable, even though he hid it better. Solas almost wished to tell him that this was at least not a fault of his countrymen. That Tevinter had not brought about the fall of the elven civilization that they both worshiped and despised. That Tevinter couldn’t even be considered solely responsible for the Breach above. This once they had simply been blamed for his own failings, his mistakes.

But perhaps they deserved some collective sense of guilt. For Arlathan, for the Blight and for the Breach, as punishment for the things they ought to feel guilty about, but did not. For thousands upon thousands of slaves, battered, bound and abused by righteous lords claiming to care.

The palace was approaching in the distant, it’s white spires adorned in silver and gold. Banners and flags had been raised for the ball, and were now darting around the building, making it ripple against the dark sky of evening.

Breaking the solemn mood, Dorian began speaking gleefully about all the different types of dances he would be performing the following evening, and Cullen spoke about all the ones he would _not ever, or so help me_ partake in.

Soon the conversation lapsed into general ribbings on orlesian architecture. As always, he was amused over the little things that united people of various different backgrounds. Apparently, Dorian agreed.

“This sounds like a bad joke,” he said. “The one you expect to hear at a rundown tavern. A tevinter, a fereldan and a aalish attend an orlesian ball.”

“An altus, a First and a Templar walk into a room,” Lavellan added.

“Ex-templar,” Cullen objected, and Lavellan quickly corrected herself.

“Ex-templar. And what about Solas?”

“He is more of a punchline than a set-up,” Dorian grinned. He was rewarded with an unamused glare from Solas.

***

The Inquisition was given a private corridor. They all had a room and a wash place for themselves. Being presented as Lavellan’s private servant, he was given a slightly smaller quarter next to her suite.

He heated the barrel of water with a quick spell and cleaned the sweat and dirt of his body. He felt almost exposed, standing wet and naked in the imposing room of unexplored threats. The feeling of watchful, judging eyes could not be shaken, and he finished up as quickly as he could. It was a relief to finally disappear into the comfort of the lush bed. The silk sheets were cool and soft against his skin, so used to coarse and itchy fabrics and sleeping on the ground with roots and dirt for a mattress and grass for a pillow.

While that had its charm, this was just what he needed at the moment.

He was soon lulled into the welcome warmth of the Fade. He took a moment for himself, enjoying the feel of magic around him and the freedom it granted. And then he set to work. There was much to be done if he were to seize control of the eluvians. Agents had to be organized, placed at the right place in just the right time. Copied keys and gathered information had to be exchanged. He visited all of his agents in their dreams – most used to his stopovers by now. When he left them, he took their dreams with him, leaving them free to sleep undisturbed, if only for one night. After many hours of planning, he was confident he had everything he needed for the next day. He knew which doors led where and who could be swayed with what.

***

Leliana, Josephine, Vivienne, Dorian and Lavellan needed most of the afternoon to get ready. They were all giggling behind the closed doors to her quarters, with a misplaced Cullen stalking the corridor outside. Solas had no time for such things.

“I’ll meet the others at the ball,” he informed the Commander, and then he left him to his boredom.

Solas was dressed as a servant, but as a pampered one. The dark jacket was carefully lined and embroidered, the pants perfectly tailored and the short cape, thrown over one shoulder, was heavy, rich and embellished. He looked slightly too unassuming to be noticed by anyone important, but slightly too important to be stopped by the staff.

He walked with a briskness that suggested that he had a mission, but with a calmness that suggested that it was not something out of the ordinary. Like, for example, breaking into the heart of the palace and taking control of the network of magical mirrors. Nothing of that sort.

In the end, it was almost too easy. His planning had paid off. He skillfully dodged guards, disappeared behind tapestries and sneaked through doors meant to remain locked. And then suddenly, there it was. Stowed in the corner of a hidden storage room, partially hidden behind statues, the familiar, twisted shape shone. Golden swirls surrounded the glass. When he touched the cold surface, pressed his palm against it and started mumbling, it lit up. Fog and smoke twirled inside it, like a sinking whirlwind, drawing him in. The familiar spell spilled from his mouth and with it came memories of closed doors and old curses.

It yielded to him immediately. As if it knew who he was, as if some part of the old magic recognized some of itself in him.

It was bittersweet, standing here in a dusty storage room in a human land, with one of the few remaining artifacts of his age. He ran his fingers carefully across the frame of the mirror before he left.

***

By the time he was finished the ball had just started. The music could be heard long before he arrived. Long before the first ruffled dress or ornate doublet came into view. Eyes turned towards him as he entered the hall, but immediately lost interest as they landed on his ears. Most of them had probably already forgotten his presence, never even registered his person.

As he made his way into the ballroom a man grabbed his arm.

“Rabbit, where are the drinks?” he asked from behind a glittering mask. “We have been waiting for ever, this is outrageous!”

“My apologies, monsieur, but I cannot be off assistant. I am with the Inquisition. Now, if you excuse me.”

With a curt nod and a small shrug, he released himself from the man’s hold and continued through the crowd.

He was just in time. The Inquisitor and her company were at the doors, waiting to be called. The hours in Lavellan’s quarters had been put to good use. They all looked their parts perfectly. Lavellan was in a simple dress of vaguely elven design, paired with intricate chains of jewelry draped across her and braided into her hair.  The dress dipped low in the back, following the lines of her tattoos as they trailed along her body.

Dorian almost seemed to match her, with his dark fabrics and golden details. His eyes gleamed behind immaculate eyeliner. Josephine lived up to the nickname Varric had placed upon her – she was covered in ruffles from top to bottom, looking almost like an elaborate pastry. Leliana and Vivienne on the other hand, looked every bit as deadly as they were. And Cullen was, of course, in uniform.

“Ah, Solas. I see you finally decided to show up,” a smiling Dorian greeted him.

“The Inquisitor should not be left unattended by her servant,” Vivienne jeered.

She was enjoying this a great deal. It was fascinating to see her in her true habitat. A place where she actually held some power. Never had he seen such a little amount of it go to someone’s head so completely.

He ignored her and took his side by Lavellan.

“Gaspard thinks Briala is up to something,” she whispered. “Keep a look out for her spies.”

***

Solas stationed himself in the guest wing, casually strolling through the rooms listening for whispered secrets. In the end, he did not have to look, as they found him instead. Two elven servants approached him after first quickly consulting each other in hushed voices.

“Stay out of the servants quarters tonight.” one of them told him, and then they were gone.

One of his own people, a young elf by the name Eneas, found him shortly thereafter. He was originally from Val Royeaux, and had joined Solas’ cause when his employer had attempted to force him into bed with her. The woman had since then withdrawn from the Game, too haunted by recurring nightmares to remain a permanent fixture in high society.

“Can I get you anything, messere?” Eneas asked.

Solas held out his glass for a replenishment of wine.

“Just more drink, thank you.”

“Is everything to your liking?”

“Everything is excellent. There is plenty of food and wine about. I doubt you’ll need any extra trips to the servant quarters.”

The agent’s eyes found his, looking for confirmation. Solas nodded slightly.

“I’ll tell the others,” Eneas said and then he disappeared in the crowd.

***

As sad as the ordeal might have been, the override of the eluvian was still a success, and as those were sparse these days, he decided that it called for a celebration. He emptied his cup and filled a plate with food. His work this evening was mostly finished, he reasoned as he poured himself another serving of wine. He ignored the scandalized voices around him. He wondered if the humans had simply forgotten that elven hearing was superior to their own, or if he was meant to catch the “knife-ear”, “rabbit” and “rat” being whispered between them.

Dorian found him, and together they ate imported fruits, drank sweet wines and played a game which Dorian dubbed “sin spotting”. The object was to guess who was sleeping with whom, and Dorian proved to be very skilled at it, as two of his contenders disappeared behind a curtain halfway through Solas’ argument for why they could not possibly be together. They emerged a couple of minutes later, slightly rumpled, with hair out of place and one button left unbuttoned.

“Hm. I guess you win that one,” Solas admitted to an overjoyed Dorian.

Lavellan entered the room then, flanked by Josephine and a tail of admirers. She was one of the most influential people in Thedas right now, and undoubtedly one of the most interesting, so there was no wonder people flocked to her.

Dorian and he watched as she was introduced to baron after baron. They kissed her hands, fawned over her tattoos and asked if she had ever seen anything as grand as the Winter Palace before. She had not, she told them, her accent exaggerated and her eyes wide with feigned wonder. At least partially feigned. She _had_ probably never seen anything this grand, but the Ellana he knew what rather die than admit that to these spoiled humans.

Beside him, Dorian fumed with poorly concealed anger.

“Disgusting, utterly disgusting,” he muttered. “They aren’t even ashamed of how they are acting.”

A comte asked her how far down her tattoos went, and Josephine intervened with a shocked gasp and a playful scolding as the others laughed.

Part freak show, part foreplay, Solas thought sourly.

One of his agents, a city elf from Starkhaven, had told him that some humans enjoyed playing out tales of conquest in the bedroom. I’m the general of an Exalted March, you are the last survivor from the Dales, I’m a tevinter magister, you are my personal slave – things like that. He wondered if this was part of that. A fantasy where the civilized noble got to show the humble Dalish the grandeur of humans, claiming the walls and towers as their own accomplishments and the praises and wonderment for themselves also.

Years of power play and conflict boiled down to obtuse flirtation, manifesting once and for all who was superior, and who was not.

He ran the theory through Dorian, who looked sick to his stomach and then excused himself.

Lavellan was of course not content with playing humble, and used her role to critique everything she laid her eyes on. The fashions were absurd, the conversation topics convoluted and the art unrefined. Such words were allowed, when spoken by someone who did not know better.

Someone asked her if it was common practice among dalish women to bed more than one man at once, and Lavellan remarked that this was the fourth time she had been asked that, and if the obsession with the question might come from human men’s inept skills as lovers. “Why else would you need more than one?” Another complimented her cosmetics, and wondered if the dalish used it in the clans. Lavellan cheerfully told her that the dalish were beautiful enough to not need any embellishments.  

She continuously set traps in which the nobles tumbled headfirst, but made it all seem quite accidental. In the end, they came out dumbfounded and she appeared as innocent as ever, albeit perhaps with a slightly wicked smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. By the time she cut herself loose and made her way over to him he was thoroughly impressed with how she outplayed her opponents and subverted their expectations of her.

She stepped up close to him. Probably so that no one would hear them, but it also had the added benefit of filling his nose with her perfume – a lot more subtle than what most of the orlesians wore. She looked up at him and smiled. A smile he did not think he had seen on her face before. And just like that he was four hundred years old again, causing trouble at June’s revelries. He wanted nothing but to cause a scene. To shock the sniffy humans out of their petticoats. To ease her mind by scaling the wall to a balcony with her, stealing all the wine and throwing things at the passers by below, plucking flowers and placing them in her hair.

He told her this, and she giggled and drank some of his wine. “Because you have probably had enough.”

They fantasize about what they would do if they could. “Draw pointy ears on all the paintings,” he proposed, “Take my shoes off,” she said immediately, and he countered with “Sneaking into the Empress private quarters and making love in her bed.”

The mysterious smile returned to her face and she stole some more of his wine.

“Do you have any interest in dancing?” she asked him.

“A great deal… although dancing with an elven apostate would win you few favors with the court.”

“I am _also_ an elven apostate, Solas.”

“I do not make the rules, lethallin.”

“No, you just break them, right?”

“Perhaps once our business here is done?”

“I look forward to it.”

He raised his glass in a toast. “Hunt well.” She echoed his sentiments, raised her hand to his glass and pulled it down to her face so that she could steal one last sip of wine before returning to the ballroom. Her departing smile was stained red from the drink.  

If Wisdom had seen him, it would had sighed and told him what a fool he was. Or would it have encouraged him? _There is nothing wise with indulging illusions,_ or _It is foolish not to occasionally indulge one’s illusions._ He himself did not know. He was drunk in a human ballroom thousands of years ahead of himself, and wisdom was far, far away. Nowhere to be found within these walls.

***

He did get to dance with her, in the end. Celene’s blood stained the floors, Gaspard was drunk on wine and Briala on power, and on a secluded balcony Lavellan was taking with a witch. And as the witch gathered her skirts and disappeared, Solas took her place and stepped into the chilly air. Lavellan was standing completely still, leaning against the railing and looking out over the gardens. Flowers clung to the walls and the smell of roses and sweet peas to the air.

“I am not surprised to find you out here,” he told her, and when she turned around the light from the ballroom bathed her in warm light, making her skin look impossibly soft.

He settled next to her, close enough so that her arm graced his.

“Thoughts?”

He barely heard her quiet answer over the music still seeping from the open doors.

“I don’t know if I did the right thing,” she whispered.

It was as if it was hard for the words to leave her mouth, as if the obliterating smell of flowers was smothering her. Wisdom said it was wise to worry, wise to second guess yourself, but he knew that it was also painful.

“You cannot save people from themselves, lethallin. Celene breathed death and destruction. In the end her death was her own undoing.”

“But who will pay for my actions? I feel like a foolish child, throwing a rock.”

“Only time will tell. Do not dwell on it. Come.”

He held his hand out.

“Before the band stops playing. Dance with me.”

Her fingers entwined with his.

“I’d love to.”


	16. Deceivers and Make-Believers

Sorrow joined him in the Fade that night.

“Will you mourn the fall of Halamshiral with me?” he asked it.

“She should mourn too,” came its monotone reply.

Indeed, if anyone would want to mourn Halamshiral it would be her.

“Yes. Wait here while I find her.”

She was not yet dreaming, but her consciousness was bustling at the edge of the Fade. He reached for it and pulled lightly. Her hand, in his, appeared first, and then the rest of her faded into view. She was no longer dressed for the ball. In her mind, she had ridden herself of shoes and placed herself in a loose, earth toned outfit alike to the one he had seen in the memories of her clan.

“An'eth'ara,” he greeted her.

“En'an'sal'en arla,” she responded.

“I was planning a trip with a friend. It suggested you were brought along.”

“And what’s the occasion?”

“Halamshiral. My friend is a spirit of Sorrow.”

“Oh,” Her smile faded. “Yes.”

He nodded and started walking towards Sorrow. She followed. He could see her steeling herself as it came into view. What would she have made of him, if she had met him like this? What she have found him horrific too? In front of him, Sorrow buzzed as the dour thoughts reached it. It was probably not as monstrous to her as Learning had been. Where Learning looked like a strange, corporeal creature, Sorrow looked like nothing. It was a sinking hole, a consuming emptiness which started as a dwindling fog and ended in a whirlwind of dark purple. Only when it moved, or when it turned to the side, could you see the silhouette of its head jutting out from the darkness.

“Well met, Ellana of Clan Lavellan.”

“Hello. What- what do I call you?”

“Just Sorrow.”

“Ah. Okay, Sorrow.”

It sighed deeply, and then moved towards her. She twitched as heavy, dark limbs gripped her shoulders, claws curling around her. It pulled itself close and inhaled deeply.

“So much pain. Will you let me share it?”

She looked at Solas, eyes wide and uncertain.

“You do not have to,” he said, both to her and as a reminder to the spirit. It could sometimes forget itself at the prospect of new memories. “If you wish to, you may ask it something in return.”

“Like what?”

It was Sorrow who answered.

“I can make you forget, make you remember or teach you something new.”

She stared into it for some time, before she leaned in close and mumbled something to it. Too quiet for Solas to hear.

“Yes. That is an acceptable trade,” it responded.

The arms grasping her melted through her body, beyond her skin and into her center. They remained like that for some time. Solas busied himself with a small wisp, undoubtedly drawn close by the exchange in front of him. He played with it as tears started slipping down Lavellan’s face.

When they finally untangled the spirit was bigger than before, its darkness having expanded with whatever Lavellan had fed it.

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you.”_

***

The memories of Halamshiral were steeped in pain, but there was light to. There was pride. Sorrow watched him carefully as they witnessed elves building houses for their families, filling them with children and grandchildren, as festivals were held and the streets were full of song and dance, and as the walls were painted in the most vivid of colours, telling tales of past heroics and shared legends. It knew what he saw when he looked at them, knew what he wished he could still feel.

In some ways, he still saw it. And he saw it most clearly in Lavellan. Her heart was overflowing with pride. Over her people, over what they created and what they had endured. And here, standing next to her and witnessing it, he couldn’t do anything but feel it too.

These were his people too. And they had built a home for themselves and he had missed it. Missed it all.

Beside him, Sorrow continued to grow.

***

“Can you imagine what the others would say if I told them you convinced me to let your spirit friends possess me?” she asked as they were admiring the statues in the center of a city square.

“Hmpf. It’s hardly possession to allow someone access to your memories. You alone hold the power over what to show. But… perhaps it would be best to not tell Cassandra or Vivienne about it regardless. Or Cullen.”

“Or Sera. Or Bull.”

“Perhaps you’d do best not to tell anyone.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Was it-”

He didn’t know how to finish the question.

“What? Scary?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“No. Sorrow is… familiar, as sad as that might be. Being dalish means pledging yourself to the past, dreaming of empires while living in the dirt. I grew up on sorrow.”

“That- Yes. I understand that.”

They walked in silence for a while before he spoke again.

“Sera. Do you envy or pity her?”

It was not a question Lavellan had anticipated, judging from the surprise written across her face.

“A bit of both, I guess. Why? Do you?”

“Yes. She is spared from the weight of what was lost. It is not a source of pain for her, but neither is it a basis of strength or inspiration. Yet she has a purity of purpose that I lack. I have observed too much and done too little.”

“You have done more than most.”

“Correct. I doubt few have attended grand balls held in the Winter Palace.”

That coaxed a laugh from her.

“Yes. Well, you were _a_ _lot_ more comfortable there than I would have imagined.”

“I have seen countless such displays in my journeys in the Fade. The powerful have always been the same. Only the costumes change. There are powerful spirits hovering by the Veil to observe the thrones of powerful nations. The machinations, the betrayals,” He sighed. “After tonight, I understand why. I had forgotten how I missed court intrigue.”

“When were you ever at court, Solas?” she asked incredulously, all amused smiles and raised eyebrows.

Void take him.

“Oh. Well, never… directly of course. An elven apostate is rarely invited to speak with empresses and kings.”

It was not as fluent as it should have been, the lies did not slip as seamlessly from his lips as he would have liked. She noticed, and traded her amused expression for trepidation. He droned on, hoping to sweep past the lapse. Too distract by details.

“But, from the Fade, I have watched dynasties form and empires crumble. It is sometimes savage, sometimes noble. And always fascinating.”

“I can imagine,” she said slowly.

Behind them, Sorrow – of all things – was amused. Wouldn’t that be just his luck; failing so miserably that he managed to corrupt a spirit with his stumblings? Luckily, Sorrow was a hard being to sway. There was no shortage of sadness in the world.

***

When he woke the others were already in the middle of breakfast. Josephine was eating her food with one hand and organizing for the witch’s things to be transported to Skyhold with the other. The witch was peculiar about it and wanted to double check all the decisions the ambassador made. “T'would be catastrophic if lost. I will not leave it in the hands of any wastrel with a wage.”

“I ensure you, lady Morrigan, that only my most trusted workers will handle the goods,” Josephine guaranteed, and Morrigan reluctantly dropped the matter.

It was beyond Solas why the Inquisitor was deemed in need of an occult advisor in the first place. They already had him, and he knew more of magical matters then this woman could ever dream of.

Vivienne was drinking tea.

“I almost didn’t recognize you now that you are properly dressed,” she told him.

“I am not surprised. Paying attention to things beside yourself was never your strong suit.”

She frowned and returned to her tea.

***

When they left the palace Morrigan had her arm around a boy. He was dark haired and had her features. Something with the child caught Solas’ attention. Something just behind the surface, beyond the dark eyes. Something dangerous. He stared until Morrigan noticed. If she had fangs, she would have flashed them. Instead she contented with glaring. He looked away and got in his carriage. Vivienne got in behind him and closed the door behind them.

Great.

“Ah, Solas. Excellent. I was hoping we would get the opportunity to talk.”

That got his attention. Would this prove to be more than just simple needling?

She sat down across from him and crossed her legs, studied her nails with an air of arrogance.

“I do hope you were not mistaken for a servant at the Winter Palace.”

If this was just an attempt at needling she would have to do better than that.

“Such mistakes are opportunities in disguise,” he responded. “Nobles say things around servants they would never say to you, or the Inquisitor.”

“Yes, anyone who wishes to play the Game learns to use her servants effectively. Although I am surprised to see an elven apostate catch on so quickly.”

She bestowed him with a drippingly sweet smile, one that did not quite reach her eyes.

“My apologies. I shall try to live down to your expectations.”

“My expectations were possibly premature. You have, after all, played your own games quite successfully.”

“I can assure you that I have not the slightest idea as to what you are referring.”

“Oh, but Solas dear, you cannot pretend to be oblivious of the effect you are having on our dear Inquisitor. Or deny that it is all quite by design.”

“Perhaps a life of pageantry have simply left you projecting. Not all see others as stepping stones to greater things.”

“And what might these greater things be, Solas? Do you wish to crush the Circles, or perhaps bring about the end of the Chantry itself? How it must please you, to see your rebels fighting beside the Inquisition.”

“My rebels? Am I an agent for their cause, whispering poison into the Inquisitor's ears?” He huffed. “How comforting.”

“You enjoy seeing yourself as a villain?”

“No more than any other clever man who wonders what he could do if pushed. But I meant you, Enchanter. How comforting it must be for you to see a traitor helping the rebels from within. You need never concern yourself with the possibility that your Circle was wrong.”

“Your schemes could never be a comfort to me.”

“The Inquisitor is her own person. She would not be swayed by some deceiver whispering nonsense.”

“Not in politics, perhaps. But matters of the heart is another thing entirely.”

He was unable to hide his surprise at her words. She had the upper hand. She knew it. She leaned forwards.

“I do understand the appeal for a homeless apostate to attempt to seduce the leader of the Inquisition, but she is a sweet girl, and I will not see her used as you intend to. Solas dear, you are old enough to be her father. Probably older than her father, come to think of it; if she is to be believed, the Dalish reproduce young.”

“I assure you that-”

“See, I don’t quite know what to make of you Solas. So much knowledge and so little personal history... I find that... peculiar. She might buy your little act, but I do not. Everyone leaves trails. With your views, I would not be surprised if yours was one of blood.”

His mouth was dry. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. But his face was blank, his emotions gathered.

“Search all you may, Enchanter, but not all walk the path you have chosen. You surround yourself with lesser people to feel elevated, or with powerful once to keep up the illusion of relevancy. I, however, pick my companions simply by the value of their character, or the quality of conversation they yield. Which is why I spend so much time with the Inquisitor, and so little with you.”

“If that is the case dear, I am sure you will not object to moving to a different equipage.”

“Hm.” He gathered his things. “Then Enchanter, I leave you with the greatest curse of my people. Dirthara-ma.”

“Prey, what rustic elven curse is that, apostate?”

"May you learn."

Dorian looked startled as Solas suddenly pulled open the door to his carriage and jumped inside while they were still moving.

“Solas, I know that I am excellent company, but could you truly not wait until we arrived at the estate?”

***

That evening Morrigan and the child retired to their tent early. In truth, they had barely shown themselves before darting inside. Grabbing some food, exchanging some curt words and then disappearing.

Josephine, Leliana, Cullen, Vivienne, Dorian and himself were sitting around the fire with Lavellan. It was as if she had purposefully made herself as indecent as possible as some personal protest against Orlais. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, bare feet muddy, patchy pants stained and cheek adorned with a smudged streak of dirt.

And with the most magnificent smile across her face.

The others were all staring at her with the look of someone who wanted to be cross but could only muster fondness. She managed to upset the balance and push some of them over the edge towards disgust though, when she got her hands on some larvae, dug out from underneath a rock.

“Jackpot!” she declared as she held up her find.

“What can those possibly be good for?” Cullen asked skeptically.

“For eating of course. Try one.”

Cullen looked positively sick.

“Eating? Maker's breath.”

“Now, if the fereldan turns it down, you know it’s bad,” Vivienne laughed.

“They’re not bad, I promise. My cousin Ashalantarasylnin makes the best larvae stew, but they are okay raw as well.”

“Was all that one name?” Dorian asked.

“Yeah. Quite a mouthful. We mostly call her Asha.”

Lavellan propped some of the insects into her mouth and Josephine gasped in horror.

“Would you like some?” she asked Solas, with her mouth wide open so that he could see the unappetizing mush of half-chewed maggots tumbling around inside.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“More left for me then.”

She proceeded to stuff the remaining ones into her mouth. Dorian laughed at the grimace he made. “Nevermind using fereldans as a measure of low standards when you have your very own hobo apostate.”

He could feel Vivienne’s eyes on him as they retired to their tents and he crawled into the one he shared with Lavellan. He tried not to let her words follow him there, but they proved hard to rid himself of. When Lavellan tried to crawl close to him he stiffened and shifted away, just slightly.

“I promise that I didn’t bring any bugs inside with me,” she teased.

***

Only two days after they had returned to Skyhold, Morrigan’s goods arrived. It was a strange feeling seeing the eluvian be unpacked and stored in a side room by the garden. The feeling of things going his way, which was way too rare these days. So the witch had been good for something besides danger and mystery, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations taken from FenxShiral.  
> An'eth'ara: Greetings, My place is safe.  
> En'an'sal'en arla: Blessings upon your house.
> 
> Used quite a lot of game dialogue for the conversation between Solas and Vivienne. Because everything she says is just perfect.  
> Oh, and yeah... I'm going to be taking quite a lot of liberties with spirits in this. Because we know next to nothing about them. And because I love them. Would love to hear your spirity theories!


	17. Fear and Its Friends

Solas was looking for a book when the tranquil approached him. He ran his hand over the worn spines, indented with letters and age, and tried not to shiver at the sound of her droning voice, completely void of intonation and emotion.

“Serah, your requisitions have arrived.”

“Ah, excellent.”

“Shall I have them brought to your workplace?”

“That would be satisfactory. Thank you, Miss Derington.”

“There is no need to thank me, serah.” she told him, her expression as dulled as her voice, and then she returned to her desk.

He left the shelf without the book he had searched for, anxious to place as much distance between himself and the tranquil as he could. How could Dorian stand being holed up in here with her?

As he passed Varric on his way out the dwarf looked up from his writing.

“Chuckles, you getting food?”

“That was the plan.”

“Fetch me some too, will ya?”

“Certainly.”

The kitchens were full of sound, movement and warmth. Pots and pans were fizzling and boiling, ingredients spread out over the workbench, being cut by tired hands scrubbed red.

He spotted his agent, Eda, in the corner by the large oven. Her dark hair was gathered in a messy knot, her neck sweaty from both exertion and the heat from the cooking.

She caught sight of him and immediately put whatever she was doing aside.

“Fetching dinner, messere?” she asked.

“For myself and Master Tethras.”

“It will only be a minute.”

He watched as she filled a tray with food, adding fish, bread and sauce. After a quick glance around she pulled out a tiny piece of paper and slipped it under one of the plates. She looked up, her narrow eyes seeking his and he nodded slightly in conformation. He had seen.

He thanked her and relieved her of the heavy tray. When placing it between himself and Varric he was sure to give himself the plate with the hidden note.

“Oh, come on. Not fish again,” Varric complained.

While Varric was probing the food for left in bones, Solas carefully slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

***

In the privacy of his room he decoded the message. As the small room lacked a proper desk he opted to pull the table close to the bed, sitting down on top of the covers. The code was a simple one, constructed by himself thousands of years ago. He scribbled the outcome onto a spare sheet of paper, pulled from underneath heaps of books, candles and rolls of parchments.

 

_Ritts hearing reports of Venatori searching through elven temples._

_First Enchanter has put people to look into you._

_Morrigan has eluvian in garden room, next to the chapel._

_Many other servants positive to our cause. Can be enlisted with your permission._

_Human guard, Denis, causing trouble. Molesting Aille, Lana and myself. The enforcer isn’t listening._

 

He read through it several times before he set it aflame with his fingers. The words became ash that gathered in his hand, and he threw it out the window, letting the wind carry it until the small specks of black had completely vanished from his palm.

Finding Denis in the Fade that night was simple.

He was a fereldan, an unimportant man struggling to come to terms with his own insignificance. His dreams were base and boring, and Solas was happy to tear him from them.

He approached on paws, as a hulking shadow towering over the human. He showed him his fears. Images of death, disgrace and pain flashed as Solas twisted the dream around them.

“The next time you touch one of the People will be the last time you have hands,” he growled over white fangs.

Denis was crying on the ground, snot, tears, and sweat mixing together on his face, coating his puffy, pink skin in layers of moisture.

“I’ll leave them be, I promise,” he sobbed.

Solas looked down at the slobbering human at his feet. Spirits had gathered around them, watching curiously while still keeping their distance.

“Does anyone want this man?” he asked them, his voice midway between speech and snarl. A small fearling crept forth, on legs, tentacles and feelers alike. A brave thing, daring to approach the Dread Wolf.

“He is yours if you want him. He should prove full of things for you to feed on.”

The fearling hummed excitedly, and Solas carefully picked it up and placed it on the guard. A cascade of thin feelers wrapped around Denis’ face, gripping the stubby ears and the thin, hay coloured hair. Denis shivered and continued crying.

“Make his dreams unpleasant” - Solas urged the lesser spirit - "and his fears should suffice." The small fearling clicked and chittered excitedly while sitting contently upon the side of Denis’ face, slowly sinking an appendage into his mouth, slightly muffling the sound of sobs.

“This one will,” it promised. “This one will be good.”


	18. Heaven Keep the Lonely

When he entered the rotunda the requisitioned books had been stacked next to his already full desk. He immediately sat down and began reading, starting with an interesting text of nevarran necromantic rituals.

When Solas worked, he was often consumed by it completely. Unbothered by everything around him. Away faded the servants hurrying through the rotunda, the scurrying footsteps on the stone stairs and the sound of voices and crows from above. Hours passed him by as he delved into mysteries of magic and history. There was much of interest here; he couldn’t wait to share his finds with Lavellan.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a plate being placed in front of him.

“You forgot to eat again,” Eda chided.

He looked around. The candles on his desk were almost burned to the bottom, and the floors above were mostly quiet, except for a few low voices trickling down towards him.

“It appears time ran away on me. Thank you, Eda.”

She smiled.

“The guard is taken care of,” he told her. “Tell me if he, or anyone else, causes you anymore trouble.”

Her smile widened.

“Thank you, messere. I knew I could count on you.”

“Initiate the others you spoke of. I trust your judgement. Give their information to me at first opportunity, and I will pass it along.”

She nodded, and then left him to his dinner.

The solitude was short-lived. By now he was used to Cole’s tendency of blinking in and out of existence. Most times he no longer jumped as the spirit appeared next to him. That being said, he had not been prepared for the boy to abruptly speak from behind him. At the sudden sound of his voice Solas almost dropped the fork he was holding.

“She was hurting, and now she is not. You helped her. I would have done it differently.”

“How would you have done it?” Solas asked curiously.

“They rupture if you break through the skin,” Cole helpfully informed him. “And they leave their bodies behind as they leak.”

“Killing is messy. Leaves traces, creates questions. There are other ways to render someone harmless.”

Cole watched quietly as Solas ate. He was moving his hands anxiously, head darting in different directions as he listened to things others could not. Whatever was bothering him, he would share when he was ready, Solas figured.

“I cannot help her,” Cole admitted after some time.

“Who?”

“Shining bright, green light against dark sky. I never wanted any of this.”

Solas’ eyes narrowed.

“The Inquisitor, then?”

“Yes. I cannot help her, but you can. Eyes like the seas; his clothes smell of magic and trees. She thinks you would look pretty without them. I did not know they came off.”

There was no point in hiding his astonishment from Cole. Cole could see right through the deceptive mask he made of his face, into the tumultuous storm inside of him.

“How do you know this?” he demanded. “I thought you couldn’t see her clearly.”

“I can’t. She told me. I told her you think about her too. That _did_ help, but only a little.”

“Cole-” he began, but before he could continue with the reprimand the boy disappeared, swept out of thin air, off to someone who needed him more.

Solas buried his face in his hands and groaned. Everything else in his life was a tangled mess. Did this have to be, too?

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to dissect Cole’s words. _Was_ Lavellan interested in him? She couldn’t be. Not like that. She was young, she was exposed and uncluttered, always putting herself in the way of beauty, always finding it in unsuspecting places; she probably went on and on about everybody’s eyes. And Cole was not well versed in the complexities of waking emotions. They were contradictory, clashing and often so very, very confusing.

He knew that whatever sowed in this time died faster than it grew. That a life here, at best, only briefly reached beyond the ground before withering into the poisoned earth below, shuddering breaths and thin flailings its only weapons against entropy.

No, this was not a time for planting flowers.  

He sighed.

Was he interested in her? No, that was the wrong question. Whatever feelings he harbored were irrelevant. It was highly unlikely Cole was correct. Improbable that she cared for him in such a way. He couldn’t quite quench the sudden disappointment he felt at the prospect of being right.

He decided to keep some distance to her. At least until the mess inside of him had been sorted out. Everything was decaying and falling apart, torn asunder against the strain of the world. The same would no doubt happen to these misplaced emotions.

***

He felt her presence in the Fade, as strong and forceful as ever, but did not seek her out. None of that mattered though as she, for the first time in dreaming, found him.

She strolled straight into his mind like if it was nothing and looked at him with undiluted joy, both a reaction and a sight he did not deserve. She coloured the Fade around her with affection and he wondered if she always had, when he had not paid attention.

“Hey Solas,” she said. “I was thinking about what you told me before, about yourself and your studies. If you have time, I would love to hear more.”

“You continue to surprise me.”

“How so?”

He looked around. They were in the rotunda. She had placed them there, painted the room with a painstaking eye for details. Was it on purpose, or was it simply were her mind expected to find him? Come to think of it, how _had_ she found him? Was the magic of his mark somehow drawn to him?

“Lethallin, were do you think we are?” he asked her, and chuckled at the confused look she sent his way.

“You are becoming quite proficient in navigating the Fade,” he explained.

Now she was the one to look around them with wonder.

“All right, let us talk…” he said softly. “Preferably somewhere more interesting than here.”

***

This should not have been a good thing, the logical part of him reasoned. Her dropping in on his dreams, demanding to know more about him should have been considered a threat – to his plans, to his person. He should have withdrawn, taken a step back. Instead he was opening up, answering her every question with the abandon of someone who had not confided in anyone for a very long time.

The snow fell against their faces without chilling them. Landed on their clothes without melting into the fabric. She filled in details he had missed; added colours to the leaves and gave sounds to the birds.

“Haven is familiar. And it will always be important to you,” he explained.

“We talked about that already,” she said. And they had. But there were other things of which they had not spoken.

He brought her back to the beginning. A barely lit cell smelling of metal and damp hay. He told her she was a mystery. “Not as much as you are,” she countered, and he brought them back outside.

She placed a hand on his arm as he told her about the uncertainties, frustrations and fears of those first days.

“I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…”

The images flashed before their eyes, of a palm turned upwards against a torn sky.

She spoke the words with him: “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“You had sealed it with a gesture,” he continued. “…and right then, I felt the whole world change.”

He had not meant to say it. Not truly. But it was so very bewitching, sitting next to her in a dream and speaking truths.

“You felt the whole world change?” she asked, and he was suddenly painfully aware of just how close to each other they were standing. His aura oscillated and rippled. Some of it bled out into the air, despite his attempts to hold it back.

“A figure of speech,” he said.

“I am aware of the metaphor. I’m more interested in ‘felt”.

And just like that, it was impossible to hold back any more. Because this was the Fade, and he could feel her admiration in the air just as plainly as it was written on her face. Because it was his dream, too, and she was lit in the most beautiful light he could imagine; the sun catching every strand of her hair and reflecting in her eyes. And because empires had risen and mountains crumbled since anyone had looked at him like she did now; in truth, perhaps no one had _ever_ looked at him like that.

“You change… everything,” he confessed, and then quickly looked away.

“Sweet talker,” she mumbled, and with a hand on the side of his face she pulled him to her. The kiss was quick, as if she was afraid of losing her nerve. A soft press of lips against lips. As she moved against him he could feel her aura buzzing with both happiness, excitement and anxiety. He stood stiff and unmoving with shock, and moments later he could feel her anxiety taking over, making her turn from him.

She though he didn’t want this, he realized, and the realization shook him into action. It was his turn to pull her to him.

This was not the tentative caress of lips from earlier. He enveloped her lips with his own, opened his mouth, and with a gasp, she did the same. Her breath felt warm against his, her mouth an entrancing mixture of soft and secure. As her mind caught up with what was happening he was hit by a flood of feelings. Her aura encircled him, mingling with his. He moaned as he felt her desire fill him, colouring his longing with lust. The entire space around them grew hotter.

She was on her toes, pushing her body flush against his. His hands gripped her hips. Hers were thrown around his neck, clinging to him and pulling him closer with a hand at the back of his head. The parted briefly, both breathless and winded. The breather did not last long – both to wound up for that, both to hungry for the other. As he slipped his tongue into her mouth it was her turn to moan, the sound acting as a catalyst – sending chains of shivers down his spine. Her tongue met his, and he felt himself grow hard against her. She felt it too, if the way she whimpered and ground herself against him was any indication. At any other time he would have been horrified. He would have pulled back, eager to put as much distance between them as possible. But here and now, in a shared dream with her soft curves against him and her taste in his mouth he allowed himself a couple more moments of heated fumbling before he pulled back. Before he reminded himself that this was Ellana Lavellan, the leader of the Inquisition, the bearer of the Anchor and most importantly, a dear friend of his, currently moaning in his arms.

If he had thought her beautiful before, it had nothing on her now – smiling up at him, out of breath and eyes ablaze.

“We shouldn’t,” he stammered.

“Solas-”

“It’s isn’t right. Not even here,” he said hurriedly, tripping on the words as he forced them out as fast as he could.

“What do you mean?”

“That- It’s… probably best discussed after you… _wake up_.”

He pushed her gently back into consciousness and then fled the dream. Fled from the lingering traces she had left, the indentions of the dream weave where it had twisted in accordance to her desires. He fled to the waking, and woke up alone in a dark room, his blankets astray and his cock straining painfully against his smalls. He covered his face with his hand and groaned. Surely, she would not come over immediately? He glanced suspiciously at the door as if she could come barging through it any moment. No, she would wait until morning. With no small amount of guilt, he pulled down his smalls, gripped his cock and wondered if, somewhere in the castle, she was touching herself too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the moment, I am not planning on tagging individual chapters as SFW or NSFW. If anyone wants me to, leave me a comment and I'll warn readers to, in the beginning of those chapters, check the warnings at the bottom of the page.


	19. To Reap That Which Grow

That morning he had felt a keen sense of déjà vu as Lavellan strolled into the rotunda. This time, however, they were both wide awake, and he could not discern her mood by studying the space around her.

“Sleep well?” he asked, with an amused tone that might have touched slightly on flirty. And that might have been just a little bit rehearsed.

“When I asked to talk to you, I didn’t think we’d be doing it in the Fade. Or, for that matter, _doing it_ in the Fade.”

He laughed at the jab – which was also clearly prearranged, and presented with a playful confidence that did a poor job at hiding her obvious apprehension. She was nervous, and inwardly he prayed to all deities conceived that no one was listening in, because so was he. It was still early, the day not yet begun, and the castle was mostly silent. Hopefully, they would remain unobserved.

“I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill considered, and I should not have encouraged it.”

Now it was her time to laugh. “You say that, but you are the one who started with tongue.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Oh, does it not count if it’s only Fade-tongue?”

From outside he could hear the sound of someone shuffling papers, which then suddenly ceased. Varric was definitely listening in. Solas sighed.

“It has been a long time, and things have always been… easier for me in the Fade.” He looked away as he spoke. Looked at the clutter on his desk, the glow of green in her hand and the brightly coloured carpet underneath their feet. Looked everywhere but her face. “I’m not certain this is the best idea,” he continued. “It could lead to trouble.”

“I’m willing to take that chance, if you are,” she stated as she stepped closer. She stopped only inches away, arms at her side and face turned towards his. She was inviting him to kiss her if he wanted, he realized. And he really wanted to. The bands of vallaslin moving across her chin were interrupted by her mouth, and the lines accented her lips, making them look full and soft. He swallowed.

“I… May be, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations.”

He searched the smile that appeared on her face for any signs of mocking or pity, but could find nothing but fondness.

“Take all the time you need,” she said gently.

“Thank you. I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams. But I am reasonably certain we are awake now, and if you wished to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking.”

“Well, I _am_ actually interested in hearing about yourself and your studies. How about you tell me while we go through that secret, occult library in the basement that Learning talked about.”

“Ma nuvenin.”

When they passed Varric flashed Solas an amused look.

Great.

He’d never get the man to shut up about this.

***

She had promised him time. Time in which he had hoped to rein in his emotions, convince himself out of this ill-advised self-indulgence. Instead, it had done the opposite. She was always around. Wherever he turned, he seemed to find her. They pillaged through the dust and cobwebs in the library downstairs together, took walks outside the walls, visited the horses with leftover carrots and spoke long into the nights, huddled together over books and manuscripts. And for every day that passed, for every hour they spent together, he found the thought of turning her away increasingly harder.

She had decided to start planting herbs in the garden, and completely ignored the scandalized humans telling her that wasn’t a job suited for the Inquisitor. While she was digging around in the dirt he joined her with a book, watching with a smile as she organized the seeds after uses and properties. Sometimes Cole would come along too, eager to help her in her endeavors. Lavellan patiently told him about the different herbs. “These ones has healing properties, and are very pretty ones they’re bloomed,” she told him, hands full of embrium seeds, and “These ones you have to look out for. They hurt if you touch them. But if you are careful you can use the lianas for potions that strengthen the skin,” when busying herself with the rashvines, and in that very moment, he realized how deeply he had fallen for her. It was at the sight of her sitting in the grass, unwearyingly teaching Cole about plants the he realized that he was in love with her. How could it have happened without him even noticing? Was he so unused to such simple feelings of affection that he had forgotten what it felt like? Well, he certainly remembered now.

“Her voice is like water,” Cole said. “Twirling and twisting. Daring to dance across skin, washing away traces of what came before.”

In that moment, more than ever before, he wished that he could leave who he was behind. That he could seize being Fen’Harel, the last of the Evanuris, responsible for the downfall and salvation of the People, and instead just be a man – any man – and join her in the grass. But she was fading. They all were, because of him. Cut off from the very essence of their beings, they were left to walk the world disconnected and dying, and in the race to save them, he couldn’t stop to smell flowers.

“When she dies, all that is good will vanish with her,” Cole continued, and Lavellan buried her hands in the earth and pretended not to be listening.

“Later, Cole,” Solas mumbled.


	20. All New, Faded for Her

He decided that the relationship was a bad idea. One that he ought not to pursue. Yet he decided that Wisdom should probably be consoled on the matter first. And he knew this decision was solely caused by his desire for it to convince him that he was wrong.

Wisdom did not disappoint.

“If it is what you wish, I see no reason to suppress it.”

“No reason? It would be a selfish, shameful distraction from my duties.”

“You are acting like if you had never woken. The world, dear friend, cannot be measured by one dimension alone, whether it be pride or wisdom. No factor can, by itself, be used to make sense of existence. Eons have passed since you were a child of the dreaming, yet you still weigh pride against love, finding the former lacking. By now you must have learned that there are things more important than duty, and that not all things can be judged on the scale of pride and shame?”

“And is there no love in pride, then? Is there no love in the pride I feel for my people, for their accomplishments, for their history? Is that what you are saying?”

“Not at all. Few love as strongly as you do. But your people would not suffer more as a result of you allowing happiness into your life.”

“She would.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ellana. She would surely suffer more if I allowed her into my life.”

“You cannot know that.”

“Yes. I will have to leave her, to complete the plans leading to her death. And the death of everyone she has ever known. There is no happiness in the path I must walk.”

“Nothing is inevitable. And the choice is hers to make, not yours.”

“But she doesn’t know the alternatives, or the consequences.”

“Neither do you.”

“Then disregard what I must do; it is still a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“I could never deserve her. She is playful, genuine, and open. Everything I am not.”

“No one can ever deserve a person, Solas. They are not things to be bought, granted or earned. They are free people, doing with themselves as they please. If she has chosen you-”

It suddenly turned quiet. The countless eyes covering its body all widened in fear, and then it screamed. A terrifying shriek, freezing the blood in his veins and making the hairs on his arm stand up. Wisdom grabbed at him, its being clinging to his and for a moment he saw through its eyes; a circle drawn between boulders on a far off beach in the Exalted Plains, shrill voices chanting in tune and the familiar twinge of magic.

He woke up covered in sweat, shivering in fear that was both his and Wisdom’s. The spell with which he lit the candles was hurried enough to burn them half through. He pulled on his tunic, wrestled himself into a pair of pant and flung the door open. The sound of his feet hitting the stone floors were unnaturally loud in the dark, quiet corridors. Down the stairs, across the hall and through the farthest door he ran, slipping and stumbling on the steps on the way up.

When she didn’t open the instant he knocked on her door he panicked. He knocked again, as hard as he could, and barely even registered the pain in his knuckles that followed. He was just about to knock once more when the door opened.

“Solas?” She was bleary-eyed and confused. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I need your help. My friend, the spirit of Wisdom, has been captured. By mages in the Exalted Plains.”

It took her only a second. Her expression went from hazy to determined.

“Bring what you need and meet me by the stables.”

He nodded and hurried back to his room.

Potions, rations, blankets and clothing were swiftly packed. When he arrived at the stables Dennett was nowhere to be seen; probably asleep somewhere in the castle. With trembling hands he began saddling the horses. She arrived shortly thereafter with both Cole and Dorian in tow.

“Can you lead the way?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Cole helped Dorian saddle his steed with deft hands, calming the creature while Dorian worked on the fastenings. Cole himself, however, did not seem to ride.

“I’ll be there when you need me,” he said and disappeared.

***

They only stopped briefly on the way. The horses needed to rest, as did they, whether they wanted to or not. They made camp in a forest, with large, thick trees grown from mossy grounds. The weather was mild, so they did not bother with tents. Dorian was uncharacteristically quiet, not even complaining at the harsh tempo and disagreeable sleeping arrangements. For this, Solas was endlessly thankful.

Ellana propped herself up against a tree and held her arms out towards him, inviting him into the comfort of her embrace. Fatigued and frightened he fell into her arms, and she hugged him tightly and traced calming patterns into his scalp with her fingertips. He fell asleep almost immediately, the soothing sound of her whispered reassurances following him into his dreams.

***

The closer they got, the more uneasy he felt. The open fields of the Dales flashed beside them as they urged the horses over yellow grass and around stony stretches.

“I can’t feel it,” he said, more disconsolate for every patch of ground covered.

“Should you be able to?”

“I do not know for certain, but I think so.”

Ellana quickened their pace. And then they were there, upon the very beach he had seen in his dreams. And just like that, all was lost. A huge pride demon struggled against restraints, crouching close to the ground and growling.

_No, no, no!_

“They corrupted it,” Lavellan gasped.

He made an aggravated sound. “Yes.”

“You said it was a spirit of Wisdom, not a fighter.”

“A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose!”

“So they summoned it for something opposed to its nature?”

Before he could respond a figure approached them. A wide faced human stuffed into a Circle’s robe.

“Let us ask them,” Solas snarled.

“A mage!” the man exclaimed. “You are not with the bandits? Do you have any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted. We’ve been fighting that demon.”

“You _summoned_ that demon!” he screamed. “Except it was a spirit of Wisdom at the time.”

Cole appeared by his side, fidgeting nervously and glaring at the human mage. Behind him, Dorian managed to both look like he was on the verge of interrupting and terrified of intervening, all at the same time.

“You made it kill!” Solas continued, voice raising as his hopelessness turned to rage. “You twisted it against its purpose!”

“I…I…I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can…”

“We are not here to help _you_.”

Lavellan ignored the stuttering fool in front of them.

“Solas, what can be done?” she asked.

“The summoning circle. We break it, we break the binding.”

“What?” the mage interrupted. “The binding is the only thing keeping the demon from killing us! Whatever it was before, it is a monster now!”

Solas twitched at the words.

“Please,” he begged Lavellan. She nodded.

“I’ve studied rituals like this. Should be able to disrupt the binding quickly.”

“Thank you.”

Lavellan turned towards Dorian, who was still wide-eyed by the side, and to Cole, now staring at the demon. She handed out orders confidently, directing them to different summoning stones, all glowing from the enchantments placed upon them. “Keep moving at all times,” she instructed. “And _you…_ ” She turned towards the Circle mage. “ _You_ stay out of our way.”

The pride demon, which he firmly _wouldn’t_ think of as Wisdom, roared. Its lash of lightning followed in their heels as they began, licking the air around them and filling it with electricity.

They made short work of the binding stones. He took his rage out on them, exploding them from within, large chunks flying through the air, or withering the material, making them crack and turning them into gravel. He tried to tune out the sound of growls and screams from the demon. Oh, thank everything holy that it at least did not speak. That he didn’t have to listen to it, like this.

Wisdom _did_ speak as itself though. With the commands removed, the towering beast twisted one last time, shrinking into a small form crouching in the grass. He hurried to it and knelt in front of it.

“Lethallin, ir abelas,” he told it. _Friend, I’m sorry._

“I’m not. I’m happy,” it responded, in elven and in the voice he knew. But strained and pained. “I’m me again. You helped me. Now you must endure. Please, guide me into death.”

He struggled to keep his voice even. To keep from choking on held back tears.

“As you say.”

He raised his hands between them, let magic pool in the air and slowly guided the breaking essence of his oldest friend into the Fade where it fell apart, scattering into millions of pieces.

He was left kneeling on the grass, the air in front of him empty.

“Dareth shiral,” he whispered. _Go safely on your journey._

He barely registered the hand on his shoulder, or the sound of Lavellan’s voice as she spoke. “It was right, Solas. You _did_ help it.”

“And now I must endure,” he finished, still staring on the spot where a life of thousands of years had just ended.

“Let me know if I can help.”

He dragged himself off the ground and faced her, worry written in her face.

“You already have.”

She reached for his hands and placed them in hers.

“All that remains now is them,” he said and looked towards the anxious crowd of mages, now beginning to come out from wherever they had been hiding. No doubt to thank them for taking care of their demon. Solas felt rage once again raise within him.

“Let me take care of them,” she said, her hands tightening around his, pulling his gaze away from the mages and towards her instead. Her eyes were fixed on his.

He pulled back, turned away.

“I need time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold,” he said before he left.

***

At first, he just walked. Walked without a clear destination in mind. The Dales were a fitting place for the type of boundless, unrestrained loss he felt. The land was a collection of tragedies, one piled atop another. Grass covered the bones of hundreds and weeds and vines grew in the once great buildings, now reduced to nothing but ruins and rocks. Dirthavaren his people called it; _the promise_. All it promised now was death and suffering. He didn’t think he had ever hated a place as much as he hated Dirthavaren in this moment.

He walked until he no longer could. Until his feet gave way and his legs were shaking. He collapsed in what had once been a fortress, and which was now only a hollow remnant of the lives that had resided here. In the dark he crouched on the ground and cried. It started silently, with quiet tears spilling into his hands, but soon escalated into sobs, violent enough to make his entire body tremble.

He couldn’t go into the Fade. Not yet. Not knowing Wisdom wouldn’t be there. Instead he remained on the ground, crying even as his tears ran out and he was just sniveling and shivering by himself.  

He had thought that he had already felt all the hurt a person could possibly feel. That there could be no room in him for more pain. That he had already lost everything. He had been wrong. Wisdom, he realized, had always been what kept him sane, what kept him going. It had always been there. Present for both of his births. First it had patiently explained the world for him when he had been newly formed in the Fade, and later it had kept him company through the grievous process of getting used to a corporeal body.

"Nothing makes sense when you are brand new," it had explained. "but I will help you. In time, things will become more understandable."

When he instead had found that things didn't make sense, that Elvhenan was ordered in ways that only benefitted a few among the People and that a deeper understandning simply meant uncovering new injustices, Wisdom had been the first to join him, and one of the few to never waver in its support for him. They had seen the world together. Watched kings wager wars, scholars uncover old truths and children speak their first words. Yes, Wisdom had always been with him. It had been by his side his entire life, and now it was dead at the hands of some fumbling fools.

He managed to wrap his cloak around himself before exhaustion claimed him, and he unwillingly fell asleep full of bitterness and hurt. Before the Fade took shape around him, he realized that when he woke, it would be a new day – the first day in his life where he was without his closest friend.

His dreams were a fluctuating mess, chaotically sending him places they had seen together. A lonely outpost on a windswept mountaintop, a waterfall hidden in a desert, red sand contrasted against blue skies and deep forests with leaves of both blue, green and purple. He stood for a long time by a clear pond, hidden in the heart of a jungle, and remembered coming here with Wisdom. Remembered that he had thought it a beautiful place. An adamant, unobstructed place of peace far removed from the pandemonium of the outside world. Here, only the humid air creating droplets of water on his skin and the colours of countless flowers reflected in the mirror-like surface of the pond had existed. And of course Wisdom, telling him that still, isolated waters were good for laying eggs, but not for living. “Life may begin here, but could never be sustained. For that, you need movement and connection to the outside.” it had said. Now, the place looked bleak, as if someone had sucked all the colours from the world and dried up the air around him, making it almost painful to breathe. He wondered if he would ever find anything beautiful again.

He waded out into the pond, and imagined the water the same temperature as the air, so it was. And then he imagined that he was naked, and lay down in the middle of the pool, floating on the surface.

They had bound it to obedience, tortured it and commanded it to kill. And it had been broken and bent by it, probably terrified in its last moments, feeling itself being destroyed from within. He had heard spirits describing the process of corruption, the feeling of your entire being changing against your mind. It was an image he often returned to in his nightmares. He was thankful that he had left his physical body behind, that it was just a dreamt version of himself drifting in the water; in the dream he couldn’t run out of tears.

He reluctantly pulled himself from the pool and placed himself were his body was currently resting. The fortress was grander here. He could feel the various images and memories floating around him, just waiting to be pulled from the air and unfolded before him. But tonight he had no interest in overgrown ruins or whatever secrets they might hold. Instead, he started walking in the direction he had come from, traveling the same distance in dreams that he had just walked in waking. Changing his shape to that of the wolf was easy by now, like putting on a well-worn shirt; familiar and comfortable.

He picked up his pace, soon flying across the fields of the Dales. Their tragedies were even more evident here. The bodies and bones were overgrown no longer, the battles forgotten no more and the air was filled with the wailings of dozens of spirits. He fled from them, the world blurring around him as he ran.

The beach looked mostly the same in the Fade. He could see traces of the magic placed on the binding stones which were still standing here, glittering and glimmering with the vile spell.

In the middle of them, a myriad of blue lights stained the air. All that remained of Wisdom. He was not alone, there were several others here to witness the traces of the spirit spreading through the Fade. There were wisps of various kinds, glowing in white, yellow and green, floating mid air at a respectful distance to the pieces of Wisdom. A spirit of Protection was looming at the outskirts of the circle and nodded in acknowledgement as Solas arrived. The space was filled by a low rumbling, emanating from a spirit of Perseverance, almost undiscernible among the large boulders. If its eyes had not been alight with fire it would have been hard to tell it from the rocks beside it. Most noteworthy, however, was the huge spirit of Serenity floating above. The vast creature was a remarkable sight. It appeared in the shape of a large sea creature, made entirely out of clouds with its many white, billowing arms stretched across the sky.

Solas passed the others and proceeded to the center of the circle, towards the spirit shards spreading in the wind. He lay down next to it, and remained throughout the night, until there was nothing left of his friend, until the others had departed and been replaced with Learning, Hope and Sorrow. They sat with him in silence until he woke, stiff and cold on the ground of an overgrown ruin somewhere in the Exalted Plains.

***

If he had been back in Elvhenan, he would have taken years to mourn. He would have brought only what he had needed and then traveled, perhaps revisiting the places they had once explored together.

But there was no time for that now. Not when the world was being torn apart in the wrong way. Still, he allowed himself two weeks of solitude before he started making the tiresome trip back to Skyhold.

He arrived by night. The faint glow from still lit candles emanated from some of the windows. Except for that, the castle was bathed in darkness. He drew his cloak tighter around himself as he stepped onto the bridge, where the wind swept the stones clean of snow with whistling sounds. When he was almost at the gate house he noticed the shape coming towards him. A tiny frame, pulled tightly in on itself to guard against the cold. It stopped by the gate and spoke to a guard, who left immediately thereafter. Lavellan, he realized as he came closer. She waited with both worry and relief written across her face.

“Inquisitor.”

Her face looked pale under the vallaslin, and her hair was down, tangled and askew as it tumbled passed her shoulders. He had never seen her hair down before.

“Solas, how are you?” she asked as she stepped closer.

“It hurts,” he said plainly. “It always does. But I will survive.”

She hovered in front of him, as if uncertain of what to do. Her fingers twitched and she reached for him, but then she froze mid-motion and searched his face, no doubt trying to find the right way to proceed. For the first time since Halamshiral he was reminded that she was dalish, and a dalish First at that. As such, she could be no stranger to dealing with death. She had probably consoled countless mourning relatives, had probably coached the clan through tragedy and loss. But this was most likely the first time she found herself helping someone outside of  her clan, and she seemed to just now be realizing that the protocol for such things might be different for non-dalish, that she might have to proceed in another way with him.

Or perhaps not.

She was still looking intently at his face, and whatever she found there appeantly assured her that her first instinct had been correct. Her hands reached for him once more, moved from his shoulders to his back, and her arms immediately encircled him as he stepped into the embrace.

“Thank you for coming back,” she mumbled into his chest.

He rested his head against the top of hers, burying his nose in the tangled tresses of her hair. It smelled of elfroot, fire and dragonthorn berries. “You were a true friend,” he whispered. “You did everything you could to help. I could hardly abandon you now.”

“The next time you have to mourn, you don’t need to be alone.”

“It’s been so long since I could trust someone,” he responded, so quietly that he was at first unsure if she had even heard.

“I know,” she said after a while, and ran her hands gently across his back.

“I’ll work on it. And thank you.”

She stepped back slightly, leaving the embrace, but with her hands still holding him in place.

“Come,” she said. “You are freezing, and you must be starving.” She took his hand and led him towards the castle.

When they arrived in his room she squeezed his shoulders briefly. “I’ll be right back,” she promised. While she was gone he worked warmth into his fingers and then pulled off the outer layers of cloaks and robes. When she returned he was sitting on the edge of the bed, down to undershirt, briefs and footwraps.

With one hand she was balancing a tray of food, with the other she was carrying a wooden bucket filled with water. She placed the bucket on the floor in front of him and the tray on the table, which was quickly pulled towards the bed for him to reach.

“Ellana,” he sighed. “You don’t have to-”

“I know,” she interrupted. “I _want_ to, Solas. Now please eat.”

She had put together quite an impressive meal, considering the time restraints. He started with a bowl of beef stew, stopping when she sat down on the floor in front of him.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t respond, other than by beginning to undo his footwraps. “Just eat, Solas.”

Too tired to argue he returned to the stew, quickly devouring it with large mouthfuls. She heated the water in the wooden bucket with a small fire mine, and started to wash his feet with a piece of cloth pulled from the pocket of the bathrobe she was wearing.

She must have been sleeping when he arrived, he realized as he studied her clothing more carefully.

“How did you know I was returning tonight?” he asked.

“Learning told me.”

“It sought you out?”

“Yes.”

He let his back fall back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of her fingers easing the pain in his worn feet. She didn’t stop until he was nearly asleep.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

“I… No.”

She helped him under the blanket, and not even the exhaustion could completely remove the embarrassment he felt at being tucked into bed like a child.

“On nydha, Solas,” she whispered before she left.

With the very last of his reserves he mumbled a spell – one he seldom used – pulling him into an undisturbed, dreamless, sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On nydha: Goodnight


	21. In the Wake of Wisdom

When Solas wearily blinked the sleep from his eyes the sun was already in the middle of the sky, shining in through the small window in his room. It was midday and he had slept through the entire morning. He groaned and pulled a blanket over his head, drawing out the moment before he had to rise and face the world.

He felt completely drained, emotionally exposed and torn up. During his two weeks of seclusion he had oscillated between feeling nothing at all and feeling too much. In one moment he had felt hopeless and eager to leave this cursed world which held less and less for him as time passed and the pieces of his old life died and disappeared. In the next moment he would be overwhelmed by how much he felt, how much he still cared, whether he wanted to or not. It would have been easier not to care.

In such moments he was sometimes filled with paralyzing panic, creeping into his stomach and pulling it downwards like a heavy weight. _What have you done, harellan? Why have the People fallen?_ his thoughts chanted with the voices of the dead. Other times it was grief inhabiting him, gripping him tightly, holding him in its grasp as he cried over the lost; friends and enemies alike. With Wisdom gone, he felt lonelier than ever. A sole survivor surrounded by the dying remains of everything he loved. And sometimes it was just that – _love –_ which overcame him, stunning him with its strength. Surprising him just with the fact that he could feel it still after everything. He had come to love too much of this time. He had come to care for blithe card games, light feraldan ale, hopeful songs of dawn, the lively sound of small, wooden flutes and the sound of _her_ singing along with them.

Wisdom, wonderful, precious Wisdom, had been wrong about one thing. He could never measure anything against love and find the former lacking. Even in the wake of its passing, his thoughts had occasionally strayed towards Lavellan, Dorian, Cassandra, Varric, Josephine, Blackwall or Cole, and he did not feel quite as lonely anymore.

Mirroring his thoughts, a faint but distinct knocking sounded against his door.

“Yes?” he blared, voice still hoarse from the many hours of sleeping.

“It’s me.”

Ah.

Cole.

“Come in,” he sighed.

Cole had brought breakfast. Bread, jam, fruit, and porridge topped with honey and nuts. And no tea. Because it was Cole, and Cole knew everything.

Solas reluctantly pulled the covers from his head and sat up. He swallowed the automatic _You didn’t have to,_ and _Really, there is no need_ because again, this was Cole.

“Thank you,” he said instead.

Cole sat down on the end of the bed and started playing with the fringes on one of the blankets. Solas couldn’t decide if he was the least or most socially inept person he had ever met.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Cole said after a while.

“So am I.”

“It wasn’t right.”

It was as if he could feel his chest constricting. He took a spoonful of porridge and forced it down his throat.

“No, it was not.”

“Breaking, bending. Green turns blue and blue turns black. But it can’t happen to you anymore Solas. You are you, now.”

“I always have been, Cole, and I always will. What that means may change however.”

“Only if you want it to. Everyone can be corrupted, but only spirits can when they don’t want. The old giving way to new, but only that which is allowed. Only seeds which are watered grow.”

“That… is true. Thank you Cole, I had not thought about it like that,” Solas said, trying his best to sound casual, to sound at peace, to cover up the disarray of his thoughts.

Cole peered at him curiously and was not fooled. All was not well, all was not settled. Two weeks ago, Solas had gone to sleep in this very bed to ask his oldest friend for council. Council only half delivered, half received, and wisdom was now lost to him.

Solas took another spoonful of porridge and felt like crying. Even when he had done nothing but that for two weeks, and he wished that he wasn’t bound to this body, wished that he wasn’t able to experience sadness like this, and wished that he could slip away from the tightness in his chest, the weariness in his eyes and the stiffness of his joints.

“You don’t mind having a body when she touches it.”

“Did she send you to check up on me?”

“No. Dorian did.”

That… was surprising.

“I would have come anyway. Your hurt pulls from far away. Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. Wisdom knows enduring is pain. You hurt for it, another of many you couldn't save. You carry necessary deaths. But it wasn’t your fault. You just wanted to help; to give knowledge, not orders."

“It can still be my fault, Cole. Whatever my intentions were.”

“She feels the same.”

“How?”

“A fallen world, red and sharp. She carries it with her, keeps it close to her heart and wishes she wouldn’t. How can she be happy when they are dead? How can she live when they do not? The answer hurts; _selfish, weak, wicked, vile._ But it’s not true. The question is wrong.”

“And what is the right question?”

“Does she make you happy? Does she help?”

“I… yes.”

“You are allowed to feel such things now. You are no longer bound to just  pride and shame. You can be happy too, if you want to. Your friend wanted you to be happy, Solas. ”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

This time, Cole did not linger. He saw the truth in the words, the genuine thankfulness Solas felt. For at least a moment, Solas allowed himself to believe that Cole was right. That it did not matter if he himself did not feel deserving of either compassion or love. The question was all wrong.

The moment stretched, because what a grand thing it was to be contained in this feeling. To be freed from being his own judge, constantly restraining himself to repentance. The walls he had so carefully constructed around himself was coming down, worn by words from Wisdom and Compassion, from hours in the library with Dorian, from Sera laughing into her drink, and Cassandra and Varric bickering while setting camp, worn from the merciless ticking of time and from Ellana lying on his couch, reading to him while he painted her praises.

Perhaps, it would not be such a bad thing. Perhaps it would be the very best of him; for once not just sundering or observing, but making and relating. Perhaps, he could be a destroyer, a killer and a liar, and still be hers.

The thought left him almost dizzy.

He felt untethered, raw and so very, very happy.

Wisdom had been wrong about one more thing. Some things _were_ inevitable. All things ended, sooner or later, and so would this. He would have to leave, he would have to tear the heaven apart, but in the meantime, perhaps he could allow himself to love Ellana Lavellan.

He could feel a weight lifting from his chest. It was such an easy thing, to love her, and such a hard thing, to try not to. She was brilliant. Better than the rest. Better than this world and far better than he was. How could her eyes shine when the world was dull? How could such a young forest-dweller show such wisdom? How could a child of dirt and earth rise above the ground, with nothing but the mud on her feet to testify that she had ever walked on it? As the questions crossed his mind, so did a possible explanation. A disturbing one, if it turned out to be true.

Cole couldn’t see her clearly. The magic of the Anchor drowned out the rest, eclipsed her essence and her thoughts. It lit up the Fade and led her to him.

He would have to ask her. He would have to ask her today.

***

Most of Skyhold paid him no attention as he descended towards the rotunda. If they had noticed his absence they had at least not thought it suspicious. For this he was thankful. He did not wish to be closely studied by the gossiping inhabitants of the castle.

His work was waiting for him just as he had left it. It was surprisingly comforting to be able to sit down, find the book he had been reading with its bookmark still in place, to dip his pencil in ink and continue his notes were he had left off. His life here was scattered with these little sanctuaries of certainty.

When she came to visit him her presence by his side felt just as certain and safe as his work. He was so caught up with reading that he missed her first greeting and she retorted to lightly punching his shoulder to get his attention.

“Hey you.”

The sight of her, looking down on him with a loving albeit slightly worried expression left him feeling weak. Someone – no doubt Josephine – had gotten her new clothes. He approved, the beige ensemble she had been strolling around in before had been atrocious, even if the tight fit afforded it certain side benefits. This was, however, much better. She was in a ring velvet tunic paired with dark, lambswool tights and elven footwraps, leaving her free to wiggle her bare toes against his carpet. Because of the high neckline of the deep blue tunic, the white, flowy shirt she wore underneath was only visible at the sleeves, were it billowed out over her arms and fell around her hands. She looked completely different from the disheveled woman who had greeted him the previous night. Her hair had been brushed and braided, and he wondered if he would be allowed to see it down again soon. If he would be permitted to run his fingers through it or braid it for her.

“Hello,” he responded.

She still looked somewhat worried, as if he would break down at any moment, so he gave her a small smile and watched as her face split in joy as she smiled back at him.

He had missed that so very much, missed _her_ so very much, which made the question she had come to ask him very simple to answer.

“I’m leaving for Crestwood in two days. I was, well… You are welcome to come along if you want to. But it’s not an order or anything, I understand if you…” she trailed off, leaving him the opportunity for more time, for solitude, for mourning and for considerations. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted less.

“I’d be happy to join you,” he told her, and she made no attempt at hiding her happiness.

He swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I was… Do you have a moment later? To speak in private.”

“Oh, I- Of course. I have a meeting with my advisors right now, and some diplomatic issues to attend to after that, but why don’t you stop my quarters before nightfall?”

“Very well. I will see you then, Inquisitor.”

“Yeah, see you.”

He returned to work with the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a stupid smile, and it took seven pages of necromantic rituals for him to be able to pull his face back into order. The giddy anticipation however remained throughout the rest of the day, even increasing as the hours grew later and the shadows grew longer.

***

He had only walked the winding steps to her quarters once before; the night Wisdom was taken, and the memory of fear mixed with the slight fear he already felt – the fear of having corrupted her, the fear of being rejected and the fear of not being rejected. He paused briefly in the staircase, leaning against the wall with closed eyes while he tried to even his breaths. What if she was only this awake because of the ancient magic? Was it truly a possibility? Parts of him, shamed and scared, almost hoped that was the case. It would spare him from the terrifying prospect of acting on his feelings, of opening himself up to another and being trusted in return. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears and could feel the violent beating of his heart. There was no point standing outside her quarters, anxious and over-analyzing. He raised his hand to her door and knocked.

A muffled “Come in!” was heard from inside.

The room was big and airy. The last lingering rays of sunlight shone through painted glass windows which bathed the room in warm, colourful light. The huge bed in the center of the room was covered in pillows and furs which, together with the soft carpet and the roaring fireplace left a warm and inviting impression.

She was sitting at a desk in the corner, the shelves behind her cluttered by books and parchment. She looked up from the writing and when she saw that it was him she put her pen away, closed her inkhorn and rose.

“Not too bad, huh?” she said, gesturing towards the room.

“Had I known the Inquisitor was in possession of such lavish lodgings, I would have invited myself sooner.”

“Too bad I didn’t tell you then,” she laughed nervously. He gestured to the balcony, an eyebrow raised in question. She agreed and stepped outside. The view was spectacular, far superior to that from atop the battlements. All of Skyhold was laid out in front of them, and beyond the mountains stretched out far, their snow-covered peaks contrasting sharply against the setting sun.

First things first. He needed to know. Needed to see if this was truly her.

“What were you like before the Anchor?” he asked, and judging from her expression it was not the topic of conversation she had anticipated.

“Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?” he elaborated.

She still seemed confused.

“No, I don’t believe so,” she said hesitantly.

But such a change, had it occurred, would surely have been noticeable. Especially to such skilled a mage as her.

“Ah,” was all he offered.

“Why do you ask?”

“You show a wisdom I have not seen since… my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected.”

She laughed then, amused but clearly still confused. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s not disappointing, it’s…” He sighed. How best to explain? “Most people are predictable. But you, you have shown subtlety in your action, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected. If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours… have I misjudged them?”

“Solas…” she warned. “Don’t do that. I will not be shouldered with either disproving or reinforcing any stereotypes you or anyone else might hold. My heritage, my clan and my beliefs are important to me, but I am my own person.”

And she was right of course.

“Forgive me,” he said, furrowing his brows in frustration as he searched for the right words. “But most people act with so little understanding of the world.”

“What does this all mean, Solas?” she asked with a small smile tugging nervously at her mouth.

“It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”

And with those words all her nervousness dissipated.

“Good,” she said and stepped closer, and it was everything he wanted and everything he feared in one. He squared his shoulders, held his arms firmly behind his back and locked his feet in place, his indecision and confliction keeping him frozen in passivity. She mirrored his stance with a playful smile, craned her neck and leaned in. She didn’t complete the motio, and instead waited for him to close the distance between them. Ever attentive to his reclusive nature, his guarded personality and his tentative attempts at closeness, she pushed just enough to break through his façade, but never enough to unsettle him. She was caring, wonderful and perfect, and so close that he could feel her warm breath against his lips and it was _not right, never would be_ so with a small shake of his head he turned away, and she caught him.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, the press of her hand both gentle and firm against his arm.

“It would be kinder in the long run,” he said, for both her sake and his, and for the simple sake of having it said. “But losing you would…” _It would destroy him. It would be the loss of the most treasurable thing that in this world_ – _in_ any _world_ – _and the only person he had ever wanted to lose himself in like this._

He turned to her and silenced the words against her lips.

She opened her mouth to him immediately, soft and warm against his. The sensation was elating and heady, leaving him almost delirious. She, and everything that she was – herbs hung up to dry, restless hands turning old pages, whistled tunes, the smell of flowers and fingers steeped in fire – was gathered in his arms, welcoming him into the thermal tow of her presence.

This was not the hungry, hurried embrace of their shared dream, this was slow and full of affection. It was different than kissing her in the Fade in more ways than one. Here he could not feel her aura bleeding into the air, tinting it with the stream of her emotions, but he found that he could still sense them – that he could feel her admiration in the way her mouth moved slowly against his, and in the caressing touches she trailed along his arms and back. He tried to put the same emotions into his own movements, tried to convey the depth of his feelings for her with his grip on her, with the insistent push of his lips and with the small circles he traced with his fingers. He found it impossible, and overcome with an overwhelming need for her to know he briefly broke the kiss.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he whispered, and she smiled and kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not even being able to keep the balcony scene completely angst-free, but this is Solas we are talking about after all...


	22. The Flowers of Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I posted this earlier today but then took it down when I realized I wanted to add a couple of things.

No gift had ever been granted him, not in gold, land, titles or lives, which could even begin to parallel the sheer magnitude of her holding his gaze and naming him her heart. The word, which had never been spoken to him before, felt like a divine blessing, connecting him, her and them to everything that was sacred and sanctified. Vhenan. The ancient word flowed fluently from her mouth and it felt like coming home, despite the tint of new times given to it by the rise and fall of her melodic dialect. Or perhaps because of it. Because somewhere among their many conversations, in a moment hidden between recited speeches, heated debates and intimate confessions, he had come to treasure her voice above all other sounds.

That night he left her quarters feeling changed, feeling shaken to his very foundations. Like if his life could be divided by its relation to this moment – the moment where he had ceased being simply his own and had become someone else’s as well. Like if she had corrupted him with the very strength of her being. There was a lightness to his steps as he crossed the castle. He felt overjoyed and elevated. In his dreams Hope practically hummed in contentment by his side.

***

They had decided to keep their relationship quiet. Skyhold was full of nobles quick to cast judgements, gossips with wings to spread words across all of Thedas readied, and believers hailing her holiness the Herald to the skies – a place many would tear her from if word got out that she had an affair with an elven apostate. Keeping their relationship quiet, however, did not mean the same thing as keeping it a secret. Such a thing would probably prove impossible. The inner circle of the Inquisition had sharp eyes – Vivienne had, after all, known about his intentions before even he himself truly did. So when he left with Lavellan for Crestwood, in the company of Blackwall, Cassandra and Dorian, he allowed his eyes to linger a little longer on her face, allowed himself to walk a little closer to her, sneak affectionate words of elven into everyday conversations, to laugh heartily at her jokes and sit close enough that their shoulders brushed against each other when they made camp.

These small moments were both fluttering, fluctuating – putting tingling sensations in his skin, haste in his heartbeats and blooms on his cheeks – and quiescent and calm; making him completely content to be in this moment with her, to walk these paths, in these times, as long as she was there by his side.

The change was not lost on their traveling companions. When Lavellan traced light fingers across his scalp in a quick caress Dorian quirked a brow, when she stuffed his robes full with small florets of blue scorpion grass blossoms Blackwall chuckled, and when Solas mumbled fragments of elven love poems into Lavellan’s pointed ears Cassandra coughed awkwardly.

No one said anything about it though, but Solas had a feeling they were just waiting for the opportunity to catch either of them alone. He was proven correct. First thing when they found a place to camp for the night, Cassandra whisked away Lavellan with a clumsily delivered request for help.

“Inquisitor, how about we look for firewood and set traps? The others can manage pitching the tents without us,” she suggested.

“Excellent idea,” Lavellan smiled, seemingly full aware of the Seekers true intentions.

As they disappeared between the trees, Solas counted in his head. One, two, three. He got to six before Blackwall turned to him and elbowed him in the ribs, his smug grin barely visible behind the bushy beard.

“Hah! You and the Herald, huh? How about that!”

“Truly extraordinary,” Dorian chimed in. “You’d think she would go for someone a bit more…” He gestured in the air, like if trying to conjure up the image of Lavellan’s ideal partner.

“So, is it true what they say about elves than?” Blackwall interrupted, and then seemed to promptly realize that Solas was also an elf. “I- I mean… It’s just….”

“They say a lot of things about elves, most of them untrue.”

“Yeah, yeah. But spill already, will you!” Dorian complained. “How long have the two of you been sneaking off behind our backs?”

“If we had been sneaking we would not be having this conversation just now.”

“Ah, so recently then?” Dorian said, and Blackwall cackled; “Would you look at that, the unmistakable thrill of a new infatuation! Risky business though, picking the Herald of Andraste.”

“Oh yes, just imagine the headlines,” Dorian said excitedly. “The outrage when the faithful find out that their precious prophet isn’t the pious virgin they wished for.”

“It would probably be best if word did not spread,” Solas cautioned. “For her sake.”

“Yes, yes of course.”

Dorian’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “I trust you are using protective measures,” he said while staring Solas down.

“What measures?”

“I understand if life as a hobo doesn’t hold many opportunities for, erhm… romance, but please tell me that you at least know how children are made, Solas.”

“What? Of course,” Solas snapped, heat rising to his face. Blackwall howled in laughter. “So, does that mean you have at least been with a woman before?” Dorian continued. “I do not wish for her to be left in the hands of some fumbling-”

“Of course I have! And there is no need-”

“Just tell me if you need pointers, alright?” Blackwall managed to squeeze out in between fits of laughter. “Hmm, yes. Perhaps I can pass on a book or two upon our return,” Dorian agreed.

Solas sighed in resignation. They were hopeless. Thankfully he was saved by the return of Cassandra and Lavellan, both carrying large piles of firewood and tinder. They got a fire going and soon the pleasant smell of boiled vegetables and broth was filling the small camp. Solas grabbed a handful of carrots, and while he prepared them he listened to the others chatter on about planned upgrades to Skyhold. According to Blackwall and Cassandra, the castle was in dire need of a training rig for the soldiers. Dorian was more concerned with a facilities for magical research.

“A place for the soldiers shouldn’t cost us much. Why don’t the two of you talk it over with Cullen when we return, and put together a list of things that would be needed?” Lavellan said thoughtfully. “A mage tower, or something of that kind, will be slightly harder though. Not that I do not agree with you on the merits of one.”

“Sure, some of the texts and instrument are hard to come by, but need I remind you that you do not only have me in your ranks, but also the First and Grand Enchanter, plus whatever it is that Morrigan used to be.”

“True. We’ll get the mages together and talk it over. But for now I think our priorities lie elsewhere.”

“What could possibly be more important?” Dorian asked, half as jest and half serious. Lavellan rolled her eyes.

“We’re a growing organization with refugees coming in weekly, located in the middle of the Frostbacks. We need to start supplying our own food, otherwise we will be too vulnerable to sieges.”

“An excellent point,” Blackwall agreed.

“So we should what; start keeping kettle?”

“Yes, and grow vegetables and root crops. And don’t make a face Dorian, I’m sure you are going to love the animals.”

“I did always want a pet as a child,” Dorian admitted.

“Perhaps not cows, goats or sheep though?” Blackwall chuckled.

“And pigs,” Lavellan chimed in. “Don’t forget pigs.”

“Well, no,” Dorian said. “I was thinking more in the lines of majestic eagles, or cats and dogs.”

“We can get some of those as well,” Lavellan promised. “Cassandra, are you a dog person or a cat person?”

“Dogs, definitely,” Cassandra immediately responded. “Cats are utterly untrainable.”

“Yeah, and you can’t use them for hunting and tracking.” Blackwall agreed.

“What about you Solas?” Lavellan said with a nod in his direction. “Cats or dogs?”

“I fail to see why one need to choose between the two. Besides…” he replied with a quirked smile. “nugs are clearly the superior choice.”

A violent discussion erupted, splitting the camp in two teams: those for and those against nugs. Blackwall and Cassandra were firmly on his side, while Lavellan and Dorian joined up in their contempt for the delightful little creatures.

Oh well, she couldn’t be right about everything.

***

It was different to share a tent with her now. As soon as he closed the tent flap behind him she pounced, grabbing his head and pulling him to her. His mouth met hers eagerly – he didn’t think he would ever tire of kissing her.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” she told him as they parted.

“Me too.”

When he pulled off his robes small, blue flowers fell from them upon the floor of the tent – left from when she had smuggled them into his pockets earlier. He sprinkled them over her and she laughed.

At first he was nervous that she would try to escalate things between them, that the kisses and touches would make a turn towards the sexual, but she seemed to be in silent agreement with him that this was not the time nor the place. Instead, she was more respectful of his private space then she had ever been before when sharing a tent. She turned her back when changing and pulled on a nightgown before laying down on the bedroll. The tent was small, with next to little space between the two mattresses. She closed the space that was by pushing her bedroll towards his.

“That okay?” she asked, and he swallowed and nodded his permission.

They both crawled beneath the covers. She hoisted herself up on one elbow and kissed him again, while running a hand slowly across his cheek. After some adjustments they were both on their sides, facing each other with her head tucked beneath his chin. She had undone her braid, and her hair was spread out across his arm, the strands tickling him slightly as they fell against his skin. He could feel her breaths against his neck and this was lovely, it really was, but it was also slightly too much. She overwhelmed his senses and intruded in ways he was not certain he was quite ready for yet. She did not seem to notice his uncertainty however, and instead encircled his waist with her arm and snuggled closer.

“Ellana, I…”

“Mhm?” she mumbled, her voice muffled against him.

“I’m… I’m not used to these sort of things.” he confided, trying to keep the slight tremble out of his voice.

His throat felt dry and his chest felt tight. He stared into the tent canvas as he awaited her judgement. It took her a while to realize that he was expecting a response.

“You want me to stop?” she said, slightly slurred, and looked up at him. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t kissed, but it still felt excruciatingly intimate to have her face so close to his.

“I… Yes. May be. It’s all just a lot… quicker than I am used to.” Void knows everything here was.

She raised a hand to his face, gently cupping his jaw while running her thumb over his lips. He shivered.

“Okay,” she said softly and pulled away, still laying across from him, but leaving some space between them.

There was no disappointment in her eyes, but he couldn’t help but to feel like he had failed her. He was old and broken and so very scared, and she deserved someone who could love her without holding back. Who would hold her, touch her and open up to her in ways that he would not permit himself to. Eager to appease her, but also to be close – not just that close, not yet – he reached out and grabbed her hand, entwining his fingers in hers. A loving smile spread across her face, and she pulled their hands to her lips and graced the back of his hand with her lips. “Solas,” she purred, and then she exhaled slowly and closed her eyes. “Meet me in the Fade?”

“Yes, always.”

***

Crestwood seemed to be in a constant state of rain. The sky was nothing but heavy clouds, casting everything in a cold, colourless and muted light. He pulled the hood of his robes up over his head to keep the cool drops of water from trickling down underneath his clothes. The hood was little help though and he soon found himself completely drenched by the merciless downpour.

The effects of the rain appeared most starkly when they entered the village of New Crestwood. If he had been forced to describe it with just one word, that word would have been muddy. The muck was absolutely everywhere, in deep aggregations between the houses, gathered in grimy trenches by the sides, splashed in heavy spots upon the walls. It even seemed to have become a part of the people living there, ingrained into their ragged clothing, stuck underneath their short, grubby nails and clinging to the wet hair that laid slick against the sides of their heads.

Lavellan was polite as ever while making her way through the village but her grace was completely lost on these people. They were paranoid and tired and did not care particularly for the strange Dalish in front of them. Their wariness was understandable. They had been left to fend for themselves against demons and bandits alike, without help from either crown, Templars or Wardens.

Ferelden had failed the villagers of Crestwood. They deserved better.

“The villagers are brave, to stay and defend their homes,” he whispered to Blackwall as they waded through the mud towards the mayor’s house. Blackwall grunted in agreement.

***

The mayor looked old. Probably a lot older than he actually was. Hardships, death and rain had sunken his cheeks, placed dark bags under his eyes and etched sharp lines across his face, and the dim light from the torches made him appear almost sickly.

“The light in the lakes is coming from the caves below Old Crestwood,” he told them. “Darkspawn flooded it ten years ago during the Blight. It wiped out the village, killing the refugees we took in.”

“On our way here we saw a dam,” Lavellan pointed out. “Could it be used to drain the lake, granting us access to the rift?”

“Drain the– There must be some other way!” The mayor appeared just as frightened as the rest of the villagers. He wrung his hands, and his bloodshot eyes moved rapidly around the room. From Lavellan, to Blackwall, to the floor, to a spot behind Solas’ shoulder, and then back to the floor in quick succession.

“We are trying to help,” Cassandra said impatiently. “The Inquisitor is the only one who can close the Rifts.”

The mayor's hands finally stilled and he sighed dejectedly.

“Then…Then I have no other choice.”

He crossed the room and started piling thought the stack of books resting there. With trembling hands he pulled out a small, brown book – unmarked and unassuming. The back fell open, exposing a hollow shell were text had once filled the pages. Inside the hideaway was a small iron key.

“Take this,” the mayor said. “It unlocks the gate to the dam controls past the fort.”

Lavellan took the key and nodded. “Thank you.”

When they were half out the door the mayor spoke again.

“Inquisitor,” he said. “The caves beneath the city… I would not linger there.”

And then they were back outside, the rain once more kissing their faces with coldness.

***

Caer Bronach greeted them with gallows, bandits and even more mud. The rain had made the stones underneath their feet dangerously slippery and he had to be careful not to fall when making his way up many stairs of the fort. When all that was left of the bandits were bloodied bodies lining the halls even Cassandra seemed exhausted. She grunted in distaste as she tried to wipe her sword clean.

From the depths of her pack Lavellan fished out a flag bearing the Inquisitions insignia. “So that our scouts know the fort is safe,” she stated.  

When they finally arrived at the dam controls they found them completely intact – locked away and covered in dust – but unbroken and fully functional. The gears groaned as they tugged on them, slowly turning under the pressure of their joined efforts.

When they were finished they stepped out on the dam and watched as the water crashed and soared beneath them, how it tumbled forward in a violent waterfall and exposed that which had been buried. A roar was heard in the distance and then steadily grew louder. Far away a dragon could be seen. It spread its vast wings wide as it soared across the sky. A humbling sight to behold. It felt strangely out of place here, in the land of mud and aging men. Intellectually, he had known that some still remained, but in his mind he still saw them as belonging to the ancient and lost. To see one here, so far removed from such things, was oddly comforting. If it persisted, then perhaps so could he.

“An impressive creature,” he said. “There is a purity in such undiluted power.”

“Extraordinary,” Dorian mumbled in awe.

***

They camped out in the dam control building, eager to keep out of the rain.

“I can’t believe people live like this,” Dorian complained. “I’m soaked through at least three layers.”

“You never do seem to bring us to nice places,” Blackwall said to Lavellan. “First the Fallow Mire, now this.”

“Well, at least you get to enjoy my excellent company,” Lavellan pointed out. She was digging around in her pack, shuffling its contents around in the search for something.

“Aha!” she exclaimed as she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a small leather pouch. When opened, several pieces of coloured strings, threads and beads could be seen inside. “Who want’s something embroidered?” she asked. Her eyes landed on Cassandra. “Cass, how about you?”

“I- I do not know what I would get.”

“A flower, a mark, an animal, a word. The alternatives are endless.”

“Perhaps… the Inquisition’s symbol?”

“Perfect! Where should we put it?”

Soon Lavellan was busy with etching their insignia onto Cassandra’s tunic, filling the fabric with red and yellow. Cassandra seemed both embarrassed and happy about the ordeal. After that it was Blackwall’s turn. He requested a nug. Dorian gracefully declined, saying no one was allowed to touch his clothes. Solas however got the lining of his robes filled with flowers – snowdrops and embriums, together with winding vines and elfroot leaves. She put the small beads in the middle of the petals. It took hours, and while she worked they all spoke about the unfortunate people of Crestwood, memories of faraway homes and the pros and cons of Varric’s writing. As they talked Lavellan inched closer to him, until she was practically in his lap, sitting in front of him and leaning against him with her back to his chest. At first, when she had nuzzled into his arms, he had frozen in place, abashed by her brashness, but after a while he had compressed his embarrassment and slowly relaxed against her.

“Is this going to be a thing now?” an amused Dorian asked. “The constant lovey-dovey thing you’ve got going.”

“Yep,” Lavellan said without looking up from the embroidery in her lap. Solas smiled slightly and hid it by nuzzling her hair.

“I think it is sweet,” Cassandra declared. Now that surprised Solas.

Apparently, it surprised Blackwall too; “I didn’t take you for a romantic,” he told her.

Cassandra huffed indignantly. “Why must it be an accusation? Romance is not the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses. It is being swept away – by a person, a feeling, an ideal. What is not to like about that?”

“Alright, alright! I see your point. And there’s nothing wrong with goin’ all weak and shaky for someone now and then.”

“Love isn’t supposed to make you feel weak,” Lavellan objected. “It is supposed to strengthen you, to raise you up.”

“Is that so?” Dorian said, and his eyes wandered to Solas.

“Yep,” Lavellan held, still consumed by the needle and thread in her hands, and Solas couldn’t help but to lock his hand against her stomach, encircling her in his arms.

***

Old Crestwood was hellish. Seaweed clung to putrefying wood and pale bones, stripped clean by decay, water and all the creature which lived therein. It smelled of moldering and rot and lingering spirits floated in between the abandoned houses, now home to nothing but crabs and undead.

As they walked through the moldy remains of the sunken village one of the spirits broke away from the rest and approached. It was nothing more than an imprint, the general shape of a being pushing through the thin Veil and manifesting in a lambent orange of head, arms and ribs.

“You! You there!” it echoed and raised a pointed hand towards Lavellan. “I order you to tell me why nothing here heads my commands.”

“A lost spirit,” Solas said. “This should–”

“Silence!” the spirit demanded. “Let the other one talk.”

Lavellan looked at him with something akin to pleading in her eyes. “Spirits are your expertise, Solas.” He nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. There was nothing dangerous here.

“Tell me why nothing here changes!” the roving spirit yelled, and he quickly told it. “This realm follows different rules from the Fade’s,” he said. “Will alone cannot overcome what you see.”

“Then what is the point of it?”

“A solid form is both shackle and strength. It… affects more than you imagine.”

Lavellan and the others watched them closely as they conversed.

“What is so distressing about the real world?” Lavellan asked it.

“It ignores me! I order the rocks to part, but they do not! I bid the sky draw closer, but it stays still! I don’t know how you mortals stand it.”

Well, that they could at least agree on.

“Is it a demon?” Blackwall asked.

“A demon?” the spirit flared. “Those dolts who would suck this world dry? I am called to higher things.”

“Then what are you?” Lavellan wondered. “All powerful spirits represents something. Compassion, Justice, Wisdom…”

“Soft virtues all,” it interrupted. “I am more. I am Command.”

Solas huffed. “Or pomposity,” he added.

It ignored him and instead seemed fully transfixed with Lavellan, floating closer as it spoke.

“What of you?” it asked her. “I felt you coming. Is there something alike in us?”

“May be. I think there must be.”

“I knew it! Make your armies ready. Cleave to your loyal servants. You will need them all!”

It was an awe-inspiring thing, as an ancient general, a trailblazer of rebellions and a veteran of countless wars – as someone called a god – to stand beside a mostly inexperienced mortal and be overlooked as a source of natural leadership in favour of her. It could perhaps be explained largely by the spirits arrogant assumptions and Solas’ own magic of evasion, but truthfully he believed that it might be correct. He had never been a natural leader, not like Lavellan was. They had both been more or less thrusted into mantling their positions, but it was a mantle she carried a lot more easily. And one she temporarily abandoned to take up the role of servant in order to help the spirit find its way back to the Fade.

***

It was in the mayor’s old house that they found the note. A small scrap of paper, kept safe from the water in a tightly sealed chest. The dry edges rustles as Lavellan unfolded it. She paled as she read.

“What does it say?” Cassandra asked.

“He did it. The… the mayor did it.”

“Did what?”

“He flooded the village. To stop the taint from spreading.”

Silence fell over them as they looked around the village. As they once more took in the death surrounding them.

***

The constant sound of dripping echoed through the desolate cave, together with the muffled sound of their footsteps upon the damp rocks.

“Is it me, or did the temperature plunge as we stepped inside?” Dorian asked.

“Not just you,” Blackwall grumbled. Lavellan pulled her robes tighter, took a deep breath and continued forward, into the darkness of the flooded tunnels.

***

Never had a prevue of sunlight been more welcome than the one they glimpsed as they ascended, rift closed and demons slain. They all inhaled deeply as they stepped outside, relieved to be out from the suppressed, damp air of the caves below. They were standing at the side of an elevation, and in front of them hills and fields of green stretched out, and the open landscape was a welcome contrast to the claustrophobic feel of the hollows from which they had emerged. Who would have known, Solas thought, that beneath the rain, mud and death, Crestwood had always been captivating.

The land still held plenty more to be unveiled. They had only walked for mere minutes before they came across a huge statue of an owl, with its stony wings spread wide above them.

Falon’din.

Lavellan laughed, and he could not decide if the sound was one of amusement, sadness or relief.

“How fitting,” she said. “Death is all around.”

She turned towards the humans, who all appeared confused by her statement. “Do you mind if we linger here for a moment?”

“By all means,” Cassandra said.

Lavellan turned towards the statue and began ridding its base of weeds and vines. When that was done she knelt before it and lowered her head to the ground in prayer. To a killer of thousands, hundreds of thousands, to an enslaver and a fool, and to one who Solas had once called friend. Ages had passed since Falon’din had betrayed him, his people and his cause, yet Solas still felt bitterness swell within him at the thought of long fingers grasping hidden daggers, of secret doors hidden by magical tricks and mist, and of dying spirits uttering enigmas with their last breaths.

In front of him, Lavellan raised her arms towards the statue and sang: “Lethanavir, master-scryer, be our guide, through shapeless worlds and airless skies,”

Solas absently ran his fingers over the flowers stitched into his robes.

Beside him, Dorian, Blackwall and Cassandra all watched in silence as she chanted, her humming voice the only sound except for the whistle of the wind which blew across the fields.

They stood in silence until the murmuring song stopped and she stood and turned towards them.

“Okay, let’s wrap everything up and head home,” she said.

She took his hand and together they made their way down the hill.

***

The mayor of Crestwood had been long gone when they had arrived at the village. Lavellan took on the unpleasant task of informing the villagers of their findings. Relief over the death of the bandits and demons was mixed with anger and horror over the revelations surrounding the old town. As a sign of gratitude they were offered housing for the night, an offer they gladly accepted. Dorian, Cassandra and he were led to a house on the outskirts of the village, while Blackwall and Lavellan headed of in the opposite direction to meet up with a mysterious warden contact.

The house was not small, but still not quite big enough for five people to share comfortably. But it would do for the night.

“The family that lived here all got killed off by the demons,” one of the villagers explained as he filled their hearth with firewood. “Lots of empty houses nowadays.”

***

Blackwall and Lavellan returned long after the sun had sunken in the horizon. Dorian and Cassandra were already asleep, so they were careful of moving as quietly as possible as they discarded their armour and weapons. After a silent bartering between them, entirely consisting of gesturing and grimaces, Blackwall was ushered towards the only bed still available. Lavellan kneeled on the floor next to him, yawned and began tugging on the fastenings of her bedroll, but Solas stopped her with a hand at the shoulder. He lifted his blanket in invitation and moved slightly to the side so that she would fit on the mattress next to him. She raised an eyebrow, asking him without words if he was sure. He was. He nodded.

She fell asleep first, with her nose nuzzled against his shoulders and her feet pressed against his legs for warmth. Crestwood followed them into the Fade that night. Lavellan’s fears shaped the dream around them and when he crossed the Veil he found himself pulled into the current of her mind. He plunged into cool water. Seaweed clung to his body, as well as to floating corpses which water had bloated. Beside him Lavellan was panicking. Her arms were flailing as she tried to keep her head above the water.

Whether it was seaweed or something else that grabbed them by the ankles and pulled them below was hard to tell. Whatever it was, it was strong. They were violently yanked from the surface and dragged lower and lower. Darkness closed around them as they descended into the upside down forest of swaying weeds, and the glittering surface above was soon completely invisible as the leathery plants completely surrounded them. At the dark, cold bottom of the lake a huge statue of an owl rested, grown over by green and grime.

You didn’t have to breathe in the Fade. The figments with which they walked had no lungs to fill with air. Lavellan did not seem to remember this though. Instead she imagined drowning, and he could see the terror in her face as her body ached for air. So he took control from her and drained the lake, much like they had done in the waking the very same day. She panted violently and shook, taking large lungsful of air.

“It’s alright, vhenan,” he told her. “You are safe. This is not real.”

Slowly, her breaths calmed and she gathered herself. She stared at the statue before them.

“Solas, do you follow the elven gods?” she asked him, and he could feel his insides turn to ice.

“I believe they existed,” he said. “But I do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide in a face marked by bloodwriting. “Then what do you believe?”

“That they were powerful mages. Dreamers who could warp the Fade around them in a time were the Fade was weaved into the very fabric of reality.”

She smiled faintly then. “Who would you consider godlike, if not someone who could warp reality around them?”

“A difficult distinction to make, but that, more than anything, shows that our understanding of godhood is a construct, born from the wish for simplicity and submission.”

She sat silently on the bottom of uncovered seabed, staring up at the statue of Falon’din.

“Come, lethallin. Let’s leave this place.”

He held his hand out to her and she grabbed it and hoisted herself to her feet. He took them far away from gloomy clouds and sunken secrets. He placed her among sunshine and flowers, on a bed of soft, green grass. The air was warm and smelled of summer, and she conjured her armour into a loose dress, lay back against the ground and laughed as the grass tickled her bare arms.

His heart warmed at the sight of her like this, carefree and content. He felt so very close to her in this moment and did not wish to put distance between them, but he _had_ to ask. “Your vallaslin, who are they for?” Absently he ran a hand over her shin and the lines of ink etched into her warm skin. “June and Sylaise,” she responded.

“Is it common to mix different parts of the pantheon like that?”

“Somewhat, but clans differ a lot from each other. Both in designs, gods and conventions.”

“How did you choose yours?”

“They usually reflect your place within the clan. The hunters will usually pick Andruil and the halla-keepers Ghilan’nain while the warriors prefer Mythal of Elgar’nan, and the scouts favor Dirthamen. But there aren’t really one for mages and Keepers, so I choose Sylaise because, well… As a future Keeper I saw it as my duty to care for my people, to make whatever place we found ourselves in our home and to always put food by our hearth.”

“And June?”

Something wistful fell over her face. “It was my mother’s. She was the clan craftsman. Used to make the most amazing things out of ironbark. Our aravel was the most beautiful in the entire clan. She had carved tales into the wood and painted the canvas.”

“Do you think you could show it to me?”

She closed her eyes and did. The small compartment appeared around them, growing from her memory and filling with details as she recalled every shape and line of the colourful interior. The structure was wooden, but the body was more like a tent, with treated fabric stretched between the wood. The floor was cushioned and soft, and he lay down next to her on it and stared into the stories above.

The entire pantheon was here, on this crafted sky that she had slept beneath her entire life. He saw the birds, bears, halla and dragons that had come to symbolize the others among the Evanuris, and after a while he found himself. A robed figure stood against a large, black wolf, keeping it at bay with a glowing staff in hand. Red eyes looked back at him over white fangs, and he thought that out of all things that the Evanuris had done to him, this was the worst. They had smeared his name in tales that had then become legends. They had separated him from his people, the very ones that he had sought to protect. And now, ages after they had last walked this world, they had managed to separate him from his very heart. It was their words she had first known him by, his name uttered to her in hatred long before they had even met.

“I love you,” he told her. But could that really be enough? Could that really stand against years and years of mistakes and misery?

“I love you too,” she said, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, it could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... so I don’t actually remember where in Crestwood you find the Falon’din statue, so this is probably way off geographically.  
> Also, Solas being a nug-lovin dork is like my favourite (borderline) canon thing, so of course I had to include it.
> 
> The chapter name is taken from one of my favourite poems, Eurydice by H.D. Highly recommended reading! :) https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/51869


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